


The Web of Wyrd

by shinigami714



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Fluff, Hurt Stiles, Injured Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mild Language, Mythology - Freeform, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Stiles-centric, mentioned miscarriage but none of the main characters, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6374665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinigami714/pseuds/shinigami714
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and the moon have an interesting relationship.  Sometimes he asks it for help, sometimes it answers, but mostly it just likes to meddle.  </p><p>This is AU from the moment Scott gets bitten, a mostly self indulgent Derek and Stiles get together fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Peter is absent from this story, but perhaps he will make an appearance in sequels if I get to them. This is my first Teen Wolf story! Hope everyone likes it :). Part two is already written, and I will probably post it within the next week. I'll add tags as I think of them.

Stiles was bored.  And not just in the moment bored, but rather, completely tired of the life he was currently living to the point of even being a slug would be better bored.  It was the same old thing every single day.  Get up, go to school, go to bed, repeat.  Sure, he had friends, well mostly just Scott, but Scott was awesome and counted as at least three people.  And sure, he had video games, and books, and television to watch.  But something was missing, something important, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

Stiles sighed, taking a swig of soda before kicking his chair away from his desk.  He rolled it across the ground backwards, inching over to the window.  It took quite a bit of creaking and shifting around, but eventually he managed to rock it in a way that allowed the back of his head to rest atop the window sill.  Stiles let out a long sigh, staring up at the nearly full moon with a pout as he scrunched up his nose.

“Know what would be cool?” Stiles muttered, holding up his pop can as he gestured to nothing in particular.

“Vampires,” he said, letting his tongue run out along his bottom lip.  He frowned, his vision blurring as he squinted at the moon.  There was a halo around it, and hardly any clouds in the sky.  It was one of those rare nights when the stars were visible, despite the city lights lingering below. The sight was absolutely mesmerizing.  Stiles blinked a few times and sat up, twisting around in the chair.  His arms thwacked against the sill and he propped his chin on top of them, pressing his lips to the cold aluminum can in his hand.

“Yeah…everyone loves vampires,” he thought out loud with a decisive nod.

“I’m not asking for much, just a little excitement around here,” Stiles mused, his leg bouncing up and down in anticipation.

“What do you say, moon?” Stiles asked, giving the moon one last searching stare.  It didn’t answer.

* * *

 

Despite the moon’s quiet demeanour, a few days later something actually did happen.  Scott got bitten by a werewolf, and as it turned out, vampires still didn’t exist.

It was late in the afternoon and the two teens were shuffling around in the forest looking for Scott’s inhaler, Stiles providing a running commentary while his friend moved leaves and grass around in a hurry.  It seemed like a fruitless effort, and Stiles paused for a moment, moving to lean against the biggest tree he’d ever seen.  He took a second to bask in the sheer grandeur of nature, ignoring his friend’s struggle just for a moment.  The hefty branches hung over them ominously, but Stiles found himself reaching out to touch the bark, blinking in surprise at the feeling of calm that overcame him.  He was peering at the gigantic roots curiously when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye.  Stiles startled and looked up, staring right into the one and only Derek Hale’s steely hazel gaze. 

It was the last person he expected to see, someone he honestly hadn’t thought about for years.  Not since that fire was all over the front page of the papers.  He was older, different than Stiles remembered from the black and white image, and yet, so very familiar.  Stiles let his gaze roam up the worn jeans and leather clad jacket, falling to rest on a startlingly intense glare.  He could have sworn those eyes flashed _gold._

Stiles jerked unconsciously, his knees weakening slightly as his heart skipped a beat, and then he was slapping his friend on the shoulder to get his attention.  Derek wasn’t even looking at him, but Stiles still felt the implication behind that stare, that the other man could kill him in a matter of seconds.  He reeked of danger, and Stiles knew if he made one wrong move, he would regret ever looking into those eyes to begin with.    

Scott was stiff at his side, just as terrified and confused by the sudden appearance in the forest, but perhaps not quite as enthralled, and much better at hiding his reaction.  Stiles couldn’t resist peering at Derek from beneath his eyelashes, sneaking glances while still trying to look innocent and indifferent.  But his interest was glaringly obvious.  His mouth hung open, and he was breathing heavier than normal.  He couldn’t stop fidgeting, his head jerking towards the stoic man constantly to get a better look. Stiles took in the dark hair, chiselled jaw, and lowered brow, and then those eyes flicked towards him and Stiles looked away in a hurry and nearly choked on his own saliva.  The dude was godlike, and definitely intimidating.

Then he spoke, and damn that voice went straight to Stiles’ groin.

Apparently tall, dark, and handsome, with a side helping of angst, thrilled him in a way he never expected.  Oh and…apparently he wasn’t quite as straight as he thought either.

His crush on Lydia was never the same after that.

* * *

Okay so maybe Stiles was a bit jealous of his best friend.

Scott had a girlfriend, good looks, a superpower of sorts, and he managed to snag first line on the lacrosse team to boot, while Stiles was little more than a gangly teenager struggling to feel comfortable in his own skin.  He wished something could take away his ADHD, like it had Scott’s asthma.  He wished he was good enough at lacrosse to play in even one game instead of holding his permanent bench warming position.  And he even kind of wished he was the one that was a werewolf instead, though he kept that hidden deep down inside, pretending to thoroughly enjoy his meagre human life.  He didn’t need to listen to another rant about how hard it was being a wolf. 

Yep, he was definitely jealous, and that pissed him off.  He wasn’t even the type to feel envy.  Not in the way he currently did.  Stiles prided himself on his loyalty, on being the guy that was always there when help was needed.  Usually that meant prowling the net for answers to life’s impossible questions, or showing up with burgers and a movie every Friday night.  Now it was a little different.  Burgers on Friday night turned into stake outs at whatever location was reporting suspicious supernatural activity, and prowling the net for answers morphed into researching about said supernatural activity.

In an effort to support his friend and ward off his developing green monster, Stiles made a point of getting involved in absolutely everything that involved Scott’s werewolf life.  He had to know all the little details, no matter how insignificant.  What did the transformation feel like from start to finish? What was it like to literally howl at the moon? Exactly how long did it take for a wound to close, and how did that vary depending on the severity of said wound?  He wanted to be there, he wanted to be a part of the action, even if that meant following Scott around like a lost puppy.  Stiles was living vicariously through his friend and it was working pretty well for the most part.

But then there was Derek.  The part of this whole shindig that actually bothered him the most.

At present time, the dude was doing chin-ups on a doorframe like he did them every day.  He probably did.  But it was still no excuse for the imagery laid out before Stiles’s roaming brown eyes.  There was sweat slickened skin, rippling muscles, biceps bigger than his thighs, though he hadn’t gotten close enough to quite make that comparison yet.  Derek Hale, was pretty much the most perfect specimen ever to walk on two legs, and sometimes four.

It was disgusting in a way.  It almost made Stiles want to puke.  Not because he found it unattractive, but rather because it made his gut churn with such intense desire that he wasn’t sure he could keep his lunch down.  He wanted Derek more than he’d ever wanted anyone else, and that said something considering he’d harboured a crush on a single person for the better part of his young life.  There was also the suspicious voice lurking in the back of his mind, the one that told him this was more than just want.  Something bigger, something more…serious.  But that was a matter for another day.

Stiles licked his lips and willed away the flush working its way up his neck.  Scott was already looking at him strangely, like he could hear every thought running through his friend’s mind, and Stiles really didn’t need the added visual cues to confirm any of his speculations.

Seriously though, no human should have looked like that.  That damned good.  Stiles took a moment to remind himself that Derek wasn’t exactly human, and in fact a werewolf, but still. 

Derek lowered himself from the door frame, stretching out his arms and showing off even more muscles as his shoulders flexed from the motion.  Stiles swallowed.  His little, in actuality quite big, crush was completely futile, and that fact was further cemented in stone when Derek directed a dark glare at him before pulling on a worn shirt.  There was a tensing motion in the werewolf’s unshaven jaw, and nothing but pure hatred reflected in his body language.  The guy despised Stiles, and likely always would.  The teen’s heart rate quickened regardless, and cold eyes flicked towards his chest before looking back at his face, almost as though the man had heard the change in pace.  Stiles raised an eyebrow and wondered if Scott was withholding information from him.  He really needed to do more research on werewolves.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Derek practically growled.  The question was directed at Scott, even though he was doing his absolute best to burn a hole into Stiles with only his gaze.

“He’s my friend,” Scott answered, tensing slightly when he quickly became the subject of Derek’s anger.

“If you want me here, then he comes too,” Scott insisted, and Stiles felt a small bit of pride at that.  He raised his chin in a falsely cocky way, his eyebrows dancing strangely on his face.  He immediately took back any and all negativity he’d directed at Scott in recent days.  Scott was the best friend he could have asked for, Scott had his back.

Derek sneered at them, his teeth clenching viciously.  He could have said no.  Stiles knew that.  No matter what Scott said, he needed the other werewolf’s guidance.  He needed to learn how to control his wolf.  It was getting to the point where he was putting his friends in danger.  Stiles had tried to help him, staying with him through his first full moon, keeping him chained up, for a time.  Neither of them had expected Scott to break free, to lash out at Stiles and throw him into a bookshelf.  He still had the bruises to prove it, and he was lucky it hadn’t been worse.    

Stiles rubbed at his injured shoulder unconsciously, waiting nervously while Derek looked between them both.

“Fine,” Derek hissed, and then he stepped closer, pressing a finger into Scott’s chest in warning.

“If he gets hurt, it’s on you.”

* * *

The first time a real threat showed its face in Beacon Hills Stiles designated himself as the official driver as an excuse to tag along.  Dead animals began turning up on the roads outside of the preserve, along with a total of two murders at the hands of a bear.  But the wounds didn’t look like they came from something so small, and bears were pretty large, so wasn’t that a frightening thought.  Stiles had managed to get an up close look at the bodies, despite his father’s warnings to stay away, and he was sure, it had to be another werewolf.  A big one.

Derek suspected the work of a lone alpha.  They weren’t sure if it had turned anyone, but the possibility was there, and became more likely the longer the alpha was left to its own devices.  Derek even suspected it might have been the one that attacked Scott, and that put a fiery determination in the young werewolf’s eyes unlike anything Stiles had ever seen before. 

The three of them met late into the night, climbing into the jeep and heading off towards the edge of the preserve.  Stiles pulled off the road and parked his jeep just outside one of the fences blocking off the area, already feeling the nerves brewing in his stomach.  He was excited to face off against a monster, had even thrown a bat in the backseat to use as his weapon. 

“Time to kick some ass,” Stiles muttered, and he had just begun unbuckling his seatbelt when Derek pushed him back with a forceful hand.

“Stay here,” Derek barked, leaving no room for argument, and Stiles sputtered indignantly, his eyes imploring Scott to step in and say something in his defence.

“He’s right, it’s too dangerous,” Scott said instead, and Stiles gaped at him for a few moments, watching as they stepped out of the jeep and shut the doors.  He shook his head in disbelief, slapping his hands against his thighs in defeat as he watched the two werewolves disappear between the trees.  It pissed him off that they thought he wasn’t capable of helping.  He hadn’t gotten involved just to sit back and watch, and he certainly hadn’t driven all the way out there to hide away in his jeep like some kind of coward. 

Stiles bounced his leg up and down anxiously, peering into the dark for a sign of movement, growing increasingly impatient as the seconds wore on.  A quick glance at the clock showed him that exactly four minutes had passed and he crossed his arms and sat back in the seat with a huff.  He checked his phone for texts, considered sending one to Scott, but ultimately figured that would make him seem even more pathetic than usual.

Another minute passed, and Stiles sniffled and scrunched up his nose, warding off an itch.  There was still nothing visible in the shadows. He squinted at the red digits on his display, daring the numbers to change, and when the next minute passed Stiles threw up his arms anxiously.

“Screw it!” Stiles hissed, and he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached back to grab the bat.  He hurried out of the jeep, checking the surrounding road for cars or pedestrians and then hopped over the fence, landing hard atop the grass on the other side.  Stiles snuck between the trees, bending low and listening carefully to his surroundings.  He couldn’t see much, and after tripping for the fourth time, he pulled out his phone for light.  Leaves crunched beneath his feet, and Stiles startled when he thought he heard something behind him.  He twisted, lighting up the area, but found nothing but trees.

“Guys?” he whispered, hoping to get an answer back, but there was nothing.  Nothing but the sound of rustling leaves and branches creaking as the trees shifted on the wind.  His heart rate picked up, and he swallowed nervously, taking a few steps deeper into the woods.  It was eerily quiet, and Stiles nearly contemplated returning to the jeep when he heard several howls sound out to his left.  His breath hitched, and he was running between the trees before he had time to think.  Branches scratched against his face, the light from his phone flashing all over the place. 

A clearing came into view up ahead, and Stiles skidded to a halt at the edge of it, stopping just in time to watch as Scott was thrown into a tree.  His friend cried out, changing back to his human appearance as he groaned on the ground.  Stiles panted as he watched a brute of a creature bare its teeth and stretch out huge claws.  It was enormous, more beastlike than wolf, and not what Stiles had in mind when he pictured an alpha at all.  And then it turned on Derek, crouching low to the ground and snapping its jaw in warning. 

Stiles cursed under his breath, and he jumped out into the clearing, flailing his arms wildly in an attempt to distract it.

“Hey! Dog breath!” he shouted, drawing the attention of all three wolves.  Scott’s eyes were narrowed in pain, but the look of horror at his friend’s sudden appearance was still apparent in his features.  Derek looked furious, his golden eyes reflecting the moonlight in a terrifying way.  And then red eyes turned on him and Stiles froze under the scrutiny of the alpha.  He knew that werewolves were vicious, capable of tearing bodies literally in half. He’d seen the dead remains of Derek’s sister, had nearly thrown up on site.  But for some reason the danger had never sunk in before.  Not until he was looking at…whatever that was.

Stiles trembled, his eyes wide as his brain stopped functioning altogether.  There was a moment, where his limbs failed to communicate with his mind.  _Run. Run damn it._   He jerked and then skittered back into the trees, the bat falling from his grasp just as the alpha scrambled across the ground in his direction.  Stiles lunged, running faster than he ever had in his life before.  He was near certain his speed in that moment would have earned him a spot on first line, had anyone been around to witness it.  Apparently all it took was imminent death to up his athletic ability.  His phone slipped from his fingers, but he ignored it, hyper aware of the heavy claws slamming into the earth not far behind him.  He didn’t know how he managed to stay upright.  By all rights he should have stumbled over hundreds of roots, but his body flew over them with an ease he never had before in his desperation to escape.  The growling neared, and Stiles squinted as air rushed into his eyes.  He saw the gap in land ahead too late to change direction, vaguely remembering that there was a tiny river flowing through that section of the woods.  He gasped for air, his eyes stinging to the point that moisture ran from the corners and down the sides of his face.

There was no way he was going to make that jump.  Stiles shook his head with a choked cry and squeezed his eyes shut.  He felt his feet slamming into the earth one last time, pushing off with as much force as he could muster, while he prayed to whatever gods existed to help keep him from plunging into the rocky depths below.  He could feel the wind on his face, cool and shocking. His hoodie flew out behind his body, flapping against his back.  He was weightless for a moment, before gravity kicked in, pulling him down towards the ground, and Stiles opened his eyes approximately three inches before getting a face full of dirt.  The pain blindsided him, and he coughed as the impact winded him. He reached out desperately to grasp at the grass and roots sticking up from the soil, barely managing to keep himself from falling off the ledge.  He was clinging to the dirt like a rodent, his fingers scrambling to keep him from sliding backwards.  His legs were dangling beneath him, his knees chafing against the rocky ledge, but he sighed in relief when he realised he hadn’t fallen headfirst into a boulder at the bottom of the river below. 

Stiles gasped for breath, turning to look behind him.  The alpha snarled at him, and then to Stiles’ surprise, took a running jump, flying over the gap as well.  Stiles saw it in slow motion, the wolf’s muscled body, contorted limbs.  He saw red eyes flashing in the moonlight, and felt the power as its body shook the ground on contact just a few feet from his straining arms.  It turned on him, baring sharp teeth, saliva running out over its jaw, and Stiles felt his heart seize up as every muscle in his body tensed.  For all his wishing to get turned, his jealousy of Scott, he suddenly didn’t want the bite at all, not from that thing.  He didn’t want those fangs within ten metres of his body, no sir.  A claw slammed down on his arm, and Stiles cried out, his life flashing before his eyes. There was hot breath in his face, pointed teeth, and then a gunshot so loud it made his ears ring. 

The wolf jerked away from him with a howl, and Stiles peered out into the darkness at the approaching silhouettes, before he let go of the ground in fear. 

“Shi-,” Stiles faltered, and his body rolled along the dirt, sliding against loose rocks and roots before he tumbled into the river and sunk below the surface.  Cool water encased him, his clothing weighing him down.  His heartbeat was loud and heavy in his ears, and he inhaled without thinking, panicking slightly as water filled his lungs.  Stiles fought against the current of the stream, eyes widening when he saw lights flashing over the surface of the river above him.  He swam best he could, blinking towards where he thought the other side might be.  His lungs strained, and he felt fear strike his core again, just as someone grabbed him by the back of his hoodie.

Stiles wheezed as air entered his lungs, panting as his body was dragged across the ground and away from the hunters and searchlights on the other side of the ravine.  He could hear shouting, more gunshots, and then someone hoisted him up.  A moment later he was pushed back against something solid, and Derek was in his face. 

“Are you an idiot?! What were you thinking?” the werewolf hissed, teeth gritted as his eyes searched Stiles’ face for answers. A clawed hand pressed against his collarbone, making it difficult for him to catch his breath, and Stiles winced when he was shoved back hard once again.

“Dude, holy…ugh! Watch it.  Human here, remember?” Stiles spat out, and he coughed some water from his lungs with a grimace.  His arm was already dotted with bruises.  It didn’t feel broken, but there were tons of scratches along his skin, brought on by the branches and rocks he’d decided to dance a little to close with on his run.  He could feel the stinging pain along his legs and sides.  Derek’s eyes narrowed, and he eased off slightly, but still kept his fingers coiled around the base of the teen’s neck.

“He saved your life, both our lives.  Let him go,” Scott whispered as he hobbled up beside them.  He was bleeding pretty badly from his arm, and there was a gash on his thigh, but he already seemed to be recovering from the injuries.  Stiles eyed the sealing wounds enviously.

“Hey, look, I’m alive and breathing, I’m not experiencing any wolfy symptoms, all’s good.  Everything went as planned,” Stiles explained.  His gaze shifted to the side, and he listened briefly, noticing that the hunters had gone away.

“Don’t act like this was some genius scheme of yours.  You were lucky,” Derek growled, and he pushed away, leaving Stiles feeling strangely cold.  His pants and shirt clung to his body, and water dripped from his hair down his face.  He just barely held in a shiver and focused on wringing out the sopping fabric hanging from his form.

“Luck is valuable, one of us needs to be the lucky one,” Stiles muttered with a pout. He was glad it was him.  Scott patted him on the shoulder, silently apologizing when Stiles flinched away from the painful touch, but it was forgotten in a moment when his friend pressed his abandoned cell between his fingers.  Stiles grinned, pulling the werewolf into a quick hug.

“Dude, you’re the best!” he said with an excited laugh.

“Come on,” Derek grumbled, gesturing with an impatient nod, and Stiles and Scott followed behind him quickly.

“What about the alpha?” Stiles asked, turning to look behind them worriedly.  He didn’t want to be at the mercy of such a creature again anytime soon if he could help it.

“It’s gone,” Derek said.  Stiles glared at his leather clad back.

“Gone…like…ran away gone or…,” Stiles drawled, and Derek turned his head so that the outline of his profile was visible against the moonlight.

“Dead.”

Stiles gulped at the finality of that response and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to ignore the uncomfortable squelching of his shoes. He wasn’t sure if hunters or werewolves were more threatening at that point.  He didn’t care to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be a couple weeks until I'm able to update again since I'll be in Europe on vacation! Hope you like this chapter. :) Thanks to everyone who read the first one!

There was a strange sort of mutual understanding between werewolves that Stiles didn’t quite understand.  It was almost like they communicated through thought alone.  There were slight eye movements, nearly invisible facial expressions, things that meant nothing to Stiles but apparently explained everything to Scott.  He felt excluded from conversations that never happened, left out of interactions that lasted only a few seconds but felt like they were hours in length. 

Scott had talked about it once, explained that there was a connection between him and Derek as wolves.  They sensed things about each other that were impossible for a human to grasp.  He called it a pack bond, and the message was quite clear, that Stiles wasn’t pack, or whatever that was all about.

It irritated him.

There was a time when he and Scott had known anything and everything about each other.  But now it felt like there was so much about Scott he just couldn’t understand.  And for some reason, the fact that Scott had such an attunement with Derek really bothered him.  Stiles didn’t like being left out, and he may not have been pack, but he was going to do his best to be as close to pack as possible.

He started pushing himself in, hanging around Derek’s house like an unwanted guest, sometimes even alone under the guise of giving Derek information.  He was awkwardly pushy, touchy even, and ended up on the receiving end of Derek’s signature glares more times than was probably healthy.  On some occasions his actions resulted in getting pushed up against doors, walls, lockers, or whatever surface happened to be close by and conveniently available for cushioning Stiles’ face.  It should have bothered him more, but really, it was hard to be that upset with a sexy as hell werewolf breathing into your ear, even if that werewolf hated your guts.

It was a pleasant surprise the first time Derek actually sought him out for information instead, showing up at his house unannounced to make use of his overeager brain.  Stiles was half asleep at his keyboard, face flattened on some notes, drool dripping from his mouth.  He startled awake at the tap on his shoulder, falling out of his chair clumsily.  His leg caught on the cable for his laptop, and Stiles grasped at whatever he could reach, managing only to drag several books down towards the floor with him. 

Stiles stared up at Derek with wide eyes, papers strewn about his body, as he struggled to steady his breathing. 

“D-Derek?” he stuttered, looking towards the open window and back.  The werewolf responded with only a raised eyebrow.  Stiles felt his face flushing and he scrambled to right himself, yanking his leg away from the cord in a hurry.  It took a few minutes for Stiles to calm down and get back in his chair, but once he did they spent the rest of the evening poring over pages of information online, Derek leaning in close over his shoulder to read along.  It was nearly morning by the time Stiles yawned and looked at the clock, and he stared bleary eyed at the vivid numbers while Derek watched him intensely. 

“What?” Stiles asked as he grimaced at the stale taste in his mouth, doing a double take at the sight of such a strange expression.  It might have been his sleep addled mind, but Derek looked a bit less brooding than usual, and it was maybe stretching it to think so, but dare he say happy?

“You know you have a diagram of a dick on your face right?” Derek mentioned casually.  Stiles blinked at him a few times, his brain struggling to digest the words, and then all at once he gasped and slapped a hand against his cheek, his eyes blown wide.  Stiles scooted across his room towards the mirror, peering at his reflection in absolute dismay.   The entire side of his face was covered in blurred ink, the outline of his biology homework still clearly visible amongst it. 

“Dude!  You let me talk to you that whole time looking like this, what the hell?” Stiles shouted, eyeing the dark haired man accusingly.  Derek just adjusted his jacket and crouched low as he slid through the gap in the window, his back turned away.  But Stiles still heard the muffled chuckle as the werewolf disappeared from sight.

The sound left him reeling, his heart pounding furiously in his chest.  Stiles slumped in his chair, pressing his face into his hands with a groan.  He was falling head over heels for a guy that probably thought he was a total space case.  Although, almost everyone thought he was a total space case so he really shouldn’t have expected Derek to be any different.  Stiles made his way to the washroom and splashed his face with water, scrubbing until the skin on his cheek was red and clean of ink.  He frowned at his reflection, watching the water drip down over his moles and open lips.  His tongue poked out to swipe away a few of the drops.

“You could have made me cooler.  Then maybe I’d actually have a chance in hell,” Stiles muttered, not quite sure who his comment was directed at.  He pursed his lips and blinked some stray droplets out of his eyes imagining for a second that his irises were glowing.  If he was a werewolf…would things have been different?  Would he still be so clumsy and awkward? Would he still be so…slightly below average?

He would have been an awesome wolf.  The wolfiest wolf. 

Stiles frowned intensely as his gaze shifted to the side, eyeing the half sliver of the moon still visible in the lightening sky.  That was among the dumbest thoughts ever to appear in his easily distracted brain.  He was a fool if he thought he’d make a good wolf at all.  If anything he was more of squirrel.  Bushy tailed, overeager, and far too energetic for his own good.  He let out a long drawn out sigh and leaned heavily over the counter, staring down into the sink in frustration.

“I’m doomed,” he whispered to the empty room, nothing but the dripping tap and the eerie moonlight to comfort him in return.

* * *

The pack started out small, including only Scott and Derek for a while, but eventually it grew in size.  Beacon Hills was some kind of hot spot for the supernatural.  In particular it attracted a large number of lone wolves, and Derek had a tendency for picking up strays, the ones that didn’t want to kill him anyway.  First there were Erica and Boyd, two wandering betas that pushed their way into the group with ease.  They didn’t plan on staying, in fact Erica in particular was very adamant about her distaste for the entire place.  But something kept them sticking around.  Stiles joked that Erica just couldn’t resist his boyish charm, but that usually resulted in a punch to the arm and a verbal assault that left him feeling like little more than a squished bug. 

Not long after that another rogue alpha showed its face, going on a biting spree that killed five people, and happened to turn a few as well.  That was how Isaac, Jackson, and Lydia managed to tag along, because naturally they got involved, and ended up in the path of danger. Thankfully the bites didn’t kill any of them, instead leaving the two males feeling rather wolfy and irritable, while awakening Lydia’s inner banshee.  The high pitched, ear drum popping screams suited her. 

Even Allison was part of the pack by proxy, adding her skill as an archer to the group, and a connection with the right kind of hunters.  The ones that upheld a code. 

It sucked that Stiles wasn’t one of them, not really, but he begrudgingly accepted that getting to see his friends all smile and work together, actually made him pretty damn happy himself.  Especially when Derek smiled, rare as it was.  The only thing that would have made it better, was if it those smiles were directed at him.

Before long they were fighting together, protecting Beacon Hills from every threat that moved close.  A perfect little band of misfits.  Stiles did his best to be useful.  If that meant carrying a baseball bat around so be it.  If that meant reading through books and websites for answers, great.  If that meant acting as the chauffer, spending all his cash on gas and getting little in return for his efforts, fine.  He’d do it, because he wanted to be involved.  He didn’t want to be left on the bench, not this time. 

This was special.  This was different.  This was…something he needed so desperately it kept him lying awake at night with that strange pain deep in his gut.

He got hurt, a lot.  There were bruises in places he couldn’t see, aches and pains in places he didn’t know even existed.  Little scrapes covered his knees and legs, and though they healed, it took weeks instead of minutes or hours, and often left silvery scars in their wake.  Quite frankly, being human sucked.

But each time he felt that hardened gaze fall upon him every bit of the pain was suddenly worth it.  He didn’t care that Derek was glaring at him in distaste, or that the only words spoken in his direction by the werewolf were more often than not, threatening and spiteful.  At least he was getting noticed, which was more than he could say for the better part of his life.  Sometimes if he was really lucky he still found himself face first against a wall, the werewolf whispering threats into his ear as leather and jeans pressed up against his backside.  He treasured those moments, and used them as fodder while masturbating in the shower.  It was probably unhealthy, that he got off on something so demeaning, but his orgasms didn’t lie, and they were some of the best he’d ever had.

Stiles settled into a pretty consistent routine.  When he wasn’t at school or sleeping, he was hanging out with the pack, looking up information about werewolves and reading about the healing properties of herbs.  Their friendly neighbourhood, not just a veterinarian, Deaton, had introduced him to a lot of useful knowledge that could help him contribute, even as a human. He was determined to absorb all of it. 

In his rare bits of free time, Stiles tried to hang out with his dad.  They didn’t see much of each other, between the sheriff’s busy schedule and Stiles’ demanding network of furry friends.  Quite often the two of them ended up squeezing father-son time in alongside other things, which meant Stiles found himself working on homework in his dad’s cruiser, while they shoved burgers into their faces and listened to the radio.    

It was on one of those nights that he heard about something entirely different.  Stiles was waiting for his dad at the station and naturally that meant he was snooping around and shoving his nose into everything he ought not to.  He hovered outside one of the containment rooms, listening in on the brief pieces of conversation that echoed into the corridor whenever someone opened the door.  He couldn’t catch much, but whoever they had in custody was apparently there under suspicion of murder, and was getting pretty worked up, shouting loudly at the people inside the room. 

Suddenly the door whipped open, and two officers dragged the man from the room.  Stiles flattened his body against the nearest wall, trying to become invisible, but his awkward movements were probably more conspicuous than ever.  He peered at the rowdy suspect, watching the way his eyes skittered frantically about, how he fought tooth and nail to escape the hands pulling him along.  Stiles had seen his fair share of murderers at the precinct, even in the relatively crimeless Beacon Hills, but something was different about this one.  The look in the man’s eyes wasn’t that of a killer, but rather, they were the eyes of someone that had seen a ghost.  Terrified, desperate, pleading even.

Stiles frowned as the man was dragged away, spouting comments about his girlfriend getting turned into a flower by a vengeful spirit. It sounded like the words of an insane person, but Stiles knew better.  There was a very real possibility that the man wasn’t insane at all.  It made sense that other things existed if werewolves did, but Stiles had never thought about it too far beyond that, and he’d certainly never considered the idea of ghosts or demons, or anything of that nature, as being a real possibility.  He licked his lips in determination, his mind already working a mile a minute as he tried to recall every bit of information he’d read in the bestiary.  Stiles was contemplating following the guards in an attempt to gather more information when his dad stepped into the hallway, looking worn beyond his years.

Stiles faltered and plastered his body against the wall even harder, hoping against all odds that his dad was too tired to take notice of an out of place, horribly positioned teenage body.  For a moment he thought he’d succeeded, but then the sheriff paused three steps beyond him, did a double take, and immediately backtracked.

“Stiles!  You can’t be in here!”  The sheriff groaned, and Stiles grinned sheepishly at getting caught. 

“You got a new case? Murders?” Stiles asked, squeaking as his shoulder was grabbed in a vicelike grip.  He stumbled for a moment while his dad yanked him down the hall and beyond his bemused coworkers.

“You know I can’t tell you that, and no, nothing’s been confirmed yet,” the older man grumbled.  Stiles flailed a bit as they rounded a corner, his eyes drifting to the manila folder in the other man’s arms.  If he could just get his paws on that, it would tell him everything he needed to know.

“That dude was saying some pretty weird stuff,” Stiles mentioned casually.

“Stiles…,” his dad trailed off, and Stiles shrugged and held up his hands to convey his innocence. He received a scornful look as the sheriff opened the door to his office, pushing his son inside.

“Stay here, don’t move, I’ll be back in ten,” the sheriff ordered, and Stiles barely contained his glee when the folder was dropped on top of the desk and left behind.  He couldn’t believe his luck! The moment the door was shut Stiles scurried across the room, flipping through the pages inside rapidly.  He grinned wildly as his eyes scoured the notes, reading about various cases that might have been connected.  When the sheriff returned Stiles was already sitting innocently in a chair, the folder exactly where it had been left, and looking miraculously untouched.

* * *

“A ghost? Really?” Lydia wondered as the pack trudged across the field leading to the park on the north side of town. 

“Maybe,” Stiles answered, nodding absently as he scoured the pages of a newly acquired ghost hunting book.   He hadn’t had a lot of time to prepare, and was trying to absorb as much as he could en route.  His flashlight wobbled in his hand, and he squinted at the yellowing pages intently.

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Jackson said for the fifth time in a matter of minutes, and Stiles rolled his eyes and clasped the book in his hands shut.

“Says the werewolf,” Stiles muttered, finally taking a look around.  Most of the pack appeared doubtful.  Derek was stoic as ever, and Boyd just seemed bored. Allison was the only one really looking around, searching the area around them with her flashlight. 

“Look, there have been over ten missing person reports.  All the suspects say the same.  That it was a strange cloaked woman in the park,” Stiles insisted.  The pack stared back at him doubtfully, and he flailed awkwardly for a moment, making eye contact with Derek in a silent plea for help.  The werewolf said nothing in return, though his eyes narrowed in that distinctly Derek way.  Which could have meant anything honestly.

“It doesn’t hurt to scope it out,” Allison eventually suggested, and thank goodness one of them had a brain and was willing to use it.  A moment later Derek huffed and walked away, Erica and Boyd following close on his heels.  The group roamed the playground, walking around the perimeter slowly.  Stiles clenched his fingers in the spine of the book, wishing he had thought to bring his bat along.  Even in a group the park was a bit ominous at night and he felt vulnerable without some sort of weapon.  There was only so much he could do by slapping something over the head with a hardcover.  But not even a bat would do much good against a ghost.  If that’s what they were even up against.  Stiles was probably being overly optimistic, but he was hoping a nice little heart to heart would solve the problem and send the spirit on its merry way.  After all, there was nothing he was better at than talking.

Stiles cringed as conversation came to a halt, the sounds of the playground eerie and far too distracting.  The chains on the swing set were squeaking as they swayed back and forth, and the teeter totter made a loud creaking noise every so often that sent chills running up and down his spine.  The shadows stretched across the ground, shifting eerily as the surrounding trees rustled with the wind. There was even a strange fog beginning to work its way into the park, setting in low and distorting things around them.  It was so reminiscent of every single horror flick, well…ever. 

“There’s nothing here,” Jackson spoke up.  He stood hunched over, his hands shoved into his pockets while Lydia clung to his arm.  He might have been right, but they had hardly worked their way around one side of the playground, and the wooden structure was quite large and intricate in design, with plenty of hidden places to explore.  Jackson continued to mutter under his breath while Stiles crept forwards, stepping into the gravel pit.  His shoes sank into the tiny pebbles as he walked beside the winding wooden pathways, and he faltered when something rattled nearby, the flashlight shaking in his grip.  Jackson was still ranting under his breath behind him, and Scott nudged him in the side with an elbow as he kept his eyes on Stiles’ back.

“Shut up,” Scott hissed, silencing the other werewolf immediately.  Stiles licked his lips nervously, his eyes searching the foggy area ahead, and he waved them off hurriedly when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye.  It might have been little more than a trick of the moonlight, but it still had Stiles on edge.  His gaze was drawn to the swaying wooden bridge, and he opened his mouth and stepped closer.  There was something hanging from between the planks.

“Huh,” Stiles breathed, and he clasped one of the hanging objects between his fingers.  It was thick, like twine, and wet to the touch.  Stiles crinkled his nose as a putrid smell wafted towards his nostrils, making him gag as his stomach lurched uncomfortably.  The curly fries he’d stuffed in his face an hour earlier weren’t sitting so well.   

“What is that stuff?” Allison whispered from behind him, and Stiles narrowed his eyes and leaned forward slightly just as his flashlight flickered and died.  He shook the sticky thread from his hand and rattled the batteries, smacking the handle against his book.

“Come on, come on,” Stiles muttered, and when it suddenly turned back on, the light nearly blinded him.  He blinked the spots from his eyes, paused for a moment, and then froze as he caught sight of the decrepit face just inches from his own. 

Stiles wasn’t sure if the noise he made could be classified as a scream.  But it was certainly loud, strangled, and filled with fear.  His shoes caught on the gravel and he tripped as he scrambled backwards, saved from falling on his ass as he collided with another body.  Stiles was too terrified to revel in the fact that it was Derek Hale supporting him, clawed hands grasping at his arms.  Instead he was staring wide eyed at the monster just a few feet away.  He nearly dropped his book, but managed to keep a tight hold of it as Derek dragged him over the wooden plank surrounding the play area.  The flashlight however, did fall from his fingers, landing with a clatter and rolling so that it cast long shadows beneath the bridge. 

The monster looked menacing caught in its light.

Its face was wrinkled and peeling, the eyes blank and white.  There was no way it should be able see them, and yet, it grinned, showing off a disgusting mouth of crooked teeth.  Stiles supposed it was female, but mostly it just looked distorted, hunched over with gangly fingers and frayed robes. There was one thing for sure.  That was no ghost.

“What…is that?” Boyd spoke for once, while Stiles remained uncharacteristically silent.  His heart was pounding, and he couldn’t breathe.  A hand clenched in his shirt, not his own, and Stiles leaned back into Derek’s chest, unconsciously seeking comfort.  Something told him a friendly conversation was not in the works.  The strange woman held out her arm then, and a moment later she was amongst them, pointed fingernails grazing the front of Jackson’s shirt.

“So many lives,” she slurred, dragging the tip of her finger along the werewolf’s chest.  Jackson’s face crumpled in fear, and he jerked backwards slightly at the touch.  Unfortunately it wasn’t fast enough.  The woman sneered and plunged a nail into him right over his heart, and suddenly he was screaming as a bloody thread was drawn from his body.  Lydia tried tugging him away, but it was no use, and she was thrown to the side roughly as the woman pulled Jackson from her grasp.

It was as though the entire pack was frozen, unable to act out of shock.  They just stood by and watched as Jackson screamed his head off, writhing in the monster’s grasp.  Allison’s bow shook in her hands, and even Erica and Boyd looked completely caught off guard by the sight.

“You will be little more than a worm in your next,” the monster hissed, blank eyes staring into Jackson’s soul.

“I give you twenty seconds,” she warned, letting go of the string with a grin and a laugh.  And then she was gone, just as fast as she had appeared.  Jackson stumbled, staring at his chest with wide eyes, watching as the thread inched back inside his body like he was some kind of talking doll.  He turned a panicked expression on the rest of them, his head shaking as the last of the thread disappeared, and then his body shrunk and landed in the shape of another.

“Jackson!” Lydia screeched, and she scrambled across the ground towards Jackson’s new body, her fingers digging him up from the dirt.  Stiles gaped at the wriggling worm, his lips and jaw moving oddly as he looked at what was most definitely an ordinary earthworm.

“Wha…what the,” he stuttered as he held tight to the book in his hands.  He looked towards it desperately, wishing he’d thought to bring along a few more resources instead of assuming they’d be up against a simple ghost.  Ghosts were scary sure, but…their abilities were limited.  Whatever they were facing was far more frightening, and far more powerful.  The werewolves were shouting, arguing with one another and Stiles frowned and ran a hand through his hair as he struggled to come up with some kind of solution.  Before he had a chance to think on it cackling sounded in the darkness around them, coming from what felt like all directions.

Stiles inhaled quickly, turning wide eyes to the pack before grabbing hold of the nearest available arm.  It was Scott, and the two shared a terrified look as the laughter grew closer by the second.  They were like sitting ducks, standing there in a group without any ideas or organization.  There was only one option.

“Run!” Stiles shouted, cutting off the fighting as he took off at a sprint.  The wolves caught up quickly, much faster than him, and someone grasped the back of his hoodie and dragged him along at a quicker pace.  They skidded through the playground, jumping over sandboxes and low beams, until Stiles made the mistake of tripping over his own feet.  He fell into the gravel ungracefully, his arms splaying out to the sides, letting out a loud groan as his face hit the tiny stones.  Erica dug claws into his back almost immediately, dragging him up to his knees so he was face to face with her extended fangs. 

“Watch it!” she growled, and Stiles coughed and scrambled to his feet, but as they moved to keep running the monster appeared at their side, cutting off their path.  It was grinning widely, showing off rotting teeth, and Stiles was sure his heart was beating so fast in his chest it had split into two.

“You,” she spoke, her fingers digging into Erica’s torso violently. Stiles choked as he watched the thread extend, this time only a few inches, but it was still enough to have the werewolf screaming at the pain.

“A mushroom,” the woman stated, and if the reality of the situation hadn’t been so serious Stiles might have laughed. 

“W-what?” Erica choked out, her eyes staring at the thing as it looked back at her intently.

“Four. Seconds,” the woman said, dropping Erica to the ground before once again disappearing from sight. Stiles had barely enough time to witness the absolute terror in the werewolf’s eyes before she gasped in pain and changed.

Stiles sat there staring at the mushroom for far longer than was probably wise to do, his eyes boring into the little fungi, sprouting up from between the gravel like it had always been there.  It was his fault.  She’d only been caught because of him, and the guilt settled painfully in his gut.  Was she stuck like that forever?  Was she actually dead?  Was Jackson dead too? He didn’t deserve to die, even if he was a bit of an asshole.

“Stiles!  Come on, we have to move!” Allison spoke lowly, tugging on Stiles collar as she urged him onwards.  It was enough to break Stiles free from his thoughts, and he paused only long enough to yank off a shoe and place it over the mushroom protectively.  With any luck, it’d keep Erica’s mushroom form safe, and hopefully they would figure out how to change her back.

Stiles limped through the pebbles, his sock covered foot sinking into the gravel uncomfortably as he maneuvered beneath the low hanging bars.  They were all split up, and no one knew where to go.  Stiles searched their surroundings frantically, his vision struggling to see anything of use in the shadows, but when his gaze fell on Scott standing several metres away he gasped and tensed.   

“Scott! Look out!” Stiles shouted, watching as the monster grabbed hold of his friend from behind, digging her fingernails into his chest and holding him in place.

“Hello wolf,” she hissed, and Stiles staggered, unable to will his body to move closer and help.

“You’ve killed a few rabbits on your moonlight soirees, I’ll make you one,” she said, leaning in to whisper in his ear.  Allison pushed Stiles aside and nocked an arrow in her bow, shooting it without taking longer than a few seconds to aim.  It hit its mark, sinking into the woman’s shoulder, but she merely grinned and yanked the arrow out, the skin sealing shut almost immediately after.  Allison gaped at the sight, and Stiles grimaced when his friend cried out in pain, suffering the same treatment as Jackson and Erica.

“Fifteen.  Seconds,” it murmured, throwing Scott to the ground.  He lifted a hand to his battered chest, and then moments later, his body cracked and changed shape, leaving a skittish rabbit in its wake.  It jolted at the first sign of movement, running for the trees.  Allison’s breath hitched, and she was crying, reaching out towards the disappearing animal desperately.  She moved to run, but Boyd grabbed her arm, holding her back.   Stiles hurried back into the playground, crawling beneath the wooden structure and huddling against the back of a metal slide.  Lydia collapsed beside him, her makeup smeared, and Isaac skittered across the pebbles a few moments later.   Stiles heaved, trying to slow his heartbeat with little success. His head fell back against the slide with a loud twang, and he winced, turning to the side and making eye contact with Derek.  He was several metres away, cramped beneath a set of wooden stairs alongside Boyd and Allison.

“What do we do?” The voice was shaky, and Stiles hardly acknowledged it, his gaze searching hazel irises for an answer.

“Stiles!” Lydia hissed in his ear, her fingernails clawing against the skin of his arm.

“I don’t know!” He shouted, jolting in place as his arms flailed in front of him.  When he caught sight of the absolute terror in Lydia’s eyes he felt the guilt take over.  Wasn’t this what he wanted?  To be the one everyone went to for answers?  Except when the pack needed him most, he didn’t have them.  He hadn’t read anything that made any sense.  He didn’t even know what it was they were up against.  All he’d managed to do was lead his friends into a death trap.  And Scott was…who the hell knew where he was.  Stiles swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

He could hear something dragging across the metal of the slide, and it grated on his nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.  Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, but blinked them rapidly almost immediately after.  He glanced down at Lydia’s hands, eyeing the wriggling insect still held delicately atop her palm.  It looked strange encased in her slender fingers, fancy nails and all.  Jackson would have been horrified that of all the creatures in the world he’d been subjected to living the life of a meagre earthworm.  He probably would have wanted something regal.  Like a lion, or a panther.  Maybe an eagle.  Stiles let out a breathy laugh but it morphed into a broken croak before the sound made it past his lips.  Their situation was way too serious to be pondering the appropriate animal alter ego for members of the pack.  It was all fun and games until someone got hurt, or in this case, turned into a worm. 

When the haggard voice sounded again he felt every muscle in his body seize.

“Tick tock…..tick tock, your time…is nearly up.”

Stiles looked up warily, almost expecting something to be there looking down at him, but there was no sign of movement.  He couldn’t see anything through the tiny cracks in the little wooden platform above.  Just darkness.  Stiles watched the drawbridge sway, listened to the squeaky chains, felt the thundering in his chest as he flinched at the smallest of scratches on the wood.  His shaky breaths seemed impossibly loud, though Lydia’s were just as apparent.

“I see you.”

And all at once it was like time had stopped.  The wood smashed apart above him, and a scream caught in Stiles throat as a decrepit hand grabbed his shirt and yanked.  He reached out in front of his body desperately, grasping at the arm that pulled him up, and winced as the splintered wood scraped against his body when he passed through the hole.  Stiles stopped breathing when he found himself face to face with the woman, staring into haunted eyes, and then the fingers dug into his chest and he felt something pulling.  It tugged along his core, and his entire body went taught. Everything was strained, like at any moment something inside him might snap and leave him in pieces.  It was invasive, almost perverse, like hands were reaching inside of him and dragging along every inch of his body beneath the skin.  He cried out, writhing in agony, his fingers tightening around the bony wrist that held him down. 

His vision blurred, and he realised his eyes were so filled with tears that he could hardly see anything at all.  Lydia was shrieking, and Stiles ears pounded as the shrill sound echoed around him.  He wanted to wrench his hands away from the woman’s arms and slap them over his ears, but his grip was frozen around her wrists.  The sound only seemed to irritate the woman slightly, and her grip on him tightened as she hissed. Someone attacked the creature but it had little effect and Stiles flinched as his body was yanked and dragged towards the slide.

Stiles saw her mouth moving, his fate seconds from being announced.  No one was saving him this time, he was going to die.  They were all going to die.  And it was all his fault for dragging them out so unprepared in the first place.  Suddenly there was fear, unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and his brain set off in a million different directions at once.  How many seconds….What if he got turned into a leech?  A snail?  An ant? Wouldn’t that just be a cruel twist of fate? He didn’t think he’d last longer than a day, squished beneath some child’s shoe as they jumped off the end of the slide. He imagined his dad coming home to an empty house, never knowing what happened to his son.  He imagined the loneliness.  He couldn’t let that happen.   He could not.  Let. That. Happen.

“H-help me,” he choked out, staring up at the moon above.  It danced in his vision, light flaring out from around the iridescent shape.  Stiles could have sworn it was laughing, a deep roaring sound, mocking.    

And suddenly he felt it.  The burning in his chest spread throughout the rest of his body and his fingers tightened even further around the woman’s arm.  It was hot, searing, like his blood was boiling in his veins.  His fingers were alight with fire, and the thread in his chest went up in flames and snapped. The monster pulled back, but not quite fast enough, the fire already beginning to crawl up the length of her arm.  It was everywhere, her face, her body, and Stiles felt the heat crawling along his clothing and nipping at his skin.  It spread to the wooden planks, engulfing the slide, and Stiles slid down the heated metal, crying out as it seared against his back.

He could smell flesh burning, his flesh, the monster’s flesh.  He could feel the gravel digging into his sides as the entire playground caught on fire.  He gasped and clutched at his chest in anguish, looking at his hand fearfully as fire burned along his skin. And then Isaac was dragging him through the little pebbles, wrapping him in his sweater and putting out the flames.  It felt like he was in pieces, like he was on the edge of death but unable to die.  The pain was unreal, and he knew there were tears running down his face.  The woman was wailing, grabbing at her face as it burned, but she wasn’t dead, and Stiles stared up at her in terror as she reached out towards him despite the flames flickering about her body.  Isaac whimpered in his ear, dragged him away even further, and as the woman lunged there was a loud menacing howl. 

Before the woman reached him she was thrown out of the air and Stiles choked as he saw the changing werewolf jumping to his defense.  It growled and tore at her burning flesh, clawing into her neck and breaking the skin.  The wolf’s muscles grew, fur formed along already thick arms, and Stiles blinked in disbelief when he saw the unmistakeable leather jacket. It was Derek, but it also wasn’t.  His fangs were extended well beyond normal, and he was practically feral, ripping apart the monster in a mindless rage.

Stiles swallowed as the werewolf devoured the creature until bones were cracking between his teeth, just as much a monster as the thing he was attacking.  Derek tore out the still beating heart, and howled up at the moon.  He looked menacing, the fire lighting up the playground behind him, outlining his contorted form.  And when he turned and looked towards Stiles, chest heaving with heavy breaths, his eyes…were red. 

That was new.

It should have terrified Stiles, but it thrilled him instead, and if he hadn’t been in complete agony, he would probably have been sporting a visible hard on and grovelling at the dude’s feet.  Or throwing up, who knew.  As it was he couldn’t do much more than groan and writhe on the ground for completely different reasons.  Even with his limited brain activity Stiles knew something had shifted.  He could feel it in the air, see it in the way Isaac stared at Derek with a mix of terror and reverence. But he didn’t have time to quite work it out.  His head was getting foggy, his vision darkening at the edges.  He let out a distressed noise without meaning to, only able to recognize a few things as his jaw slackened. Burning.  Flesh.  Pain.  Red.  He was conscious long enough to notice Scott kneeling at his side, not as a rabbit at all, before his vision faded to black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to ease back into writing after my lengthy break...and am hoping to finish off my in progress stories before moving on to other things. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Stiles woke with a start, his arms and legs flailing about as he nearly fell off the metal table in Deaton’s clinic.  There was a loud clash as he stumbled to the ground, and he reached up to grasp the front of his shirt when he remembered what it felt like to have his life sucked from his body, held within another’s grasp.  His skin ached like it was still on fire, and he gritted his teeth and let out a low strangled cry.  Hands gripped his shoulders, helping him up and propping him against the table as he stared at his surroundings with wide eyes.  His gaze strayed lower, and he pushed away his shirt in a hurry, peering at the wound on his chest.  It wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected, and he blinked at the patch of red skin oddly.  He would have thought it all a dream if not for the pain running throughout his body. 

There weren’t any innards hanging out of his chest, but his hand and arm were a mess of blisters, and he clenched his fingers hesitantly, wincing as a sharp pain shot up his limb.  The skin looked disgusting, stretching along his knuckles as it oozed a revolting substance from the worst areas.  Stiles felt his face draining of colour, and then he hurried to the side and threw up in a garbage pail.  The bile burned his throat as it came up, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of his skin caught aflame.  Stiles heaved what felt like the entire contents of his stomach into the bin before standing and facing the rest of the room. 

Scott looked worried, his eyes wide and round, and Lydia stared down at her nails like they were far more interesting than anything else within a ten metre radius.  Everyone was exactly as he remembered, but the tension in the room was palpable.  Strangely quiet for how many people were cramped into the small space.  

Stiles worked on steadying his breathing while he watched Deaton fiddle with the creature’s remains.  It still reeked of burning flesh, but what disturbed him even more was the bloody mess its body had been reduced to.  Clearly torn and ripped to shreds by teeth and claws.  Stiles wrinkled his nose and grimaced, turning away from the sight.  His eyes locked on Derek, who was staring right back, body rigid and standing tall against the far wall.  His arms and hands had been washed, but his shirt was stained with blood, and Stiles could see the dried crust caked beneath his pointed fingernails.  He was away from the others, and clearly wary of getting closer, eyes still a vivid red. Stiles swallowed nervously, and leaned against the wall behind him as he looked away.  Everyone else was quiet, but in one piece, and he could feel the pitying glances directed towards him.

“As per usual, everyone else is fine, awesome, just great,” Stiles mumbled, his voice cracking in his throat.

“None of us are stupid enough to set ourselves on fire,” Jackson spat.  His voice was scathing, and it pissed Stiles off to no end. 

“Jackson, gotta admit, I kind of liked you as a worm,” Stiles mentioned with a shrug, and Jackson was on him in half a second, grabbing at his neck and lifting him against the wall.  Stiles winced, his breathing faltering as he remembered the bony hand that lifted his body in the playground.  He recalled the feeling of wooden planks chafing against his skin, the fear of imminent death that took over his mind, and he was seconds away from a panic attack, already struggling to breathe.

“Jackson!”

It was Derek’s voice, but louder, deeper than before. The sound filled the tiny room, halting the beta immediately, his fingers still clenched around Stiles’ throat.  Jackson looked conflicted, glancing between Derek and Stiles frantically.  Then finally he let Stiles go with a little awkward pat and a muttered apology, though his expression remained pinched. 

Stiles staggered on his feet, completely baffled by the interaction.  He didn’t think he’d ever heard Jackson apologize to anyone before, and he had certainly never been on the receiving end. Stiles blinked at the other teen, taking a moment to really study the werewolf’s body language.  Jackson looked a bit overwhelmed.  He was hunched into himself, more than usual.  His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and his jaw was painfully tensed.  Clearly his adventure into the life of a worm had been very unpleasant.  Stiles almost felt guilty.  Almost.

“No worries dude, shouldn’t have baited you,” he said hesitantly.  The werewolf didn’t respond, and he stood awkwardly with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.  Stiles mimicked the position, jolting as his sensitive fingers rubbed against the fabric of his shirt.

“Why uh…why aren’t you a worm exactly?” he asked, ignoring the small croak his voice made when Jackson glared at him mid-sentence.

“We changed back as soon as she died.  Must’ve just been a curse,” Erica voiced from across the room, and Stiles grinned at her and skipped around Jackson’s body eagerly to get closer.

“Hey! No one stepped on you!” he cried happily, and then Stiles jerked and fumbled as his shoe slammed into his chest.  It hurt, and he ducked his head to hide the wince. 

“Put your stinky shoe anywhere near me again and I’ll rip your head off,” Erica sneered, but her eyes betrayed the hint of gratitude hidden behind the words.

“So much love in this room.” Stiles pouted and took a moment to study his surroundings once again, his gaze once again landing on the creature Deaton worked over diligently.  The vet showed no outward sign of disturbance but Stiles couldn’t help but grimace at the sight of the still beating heart on the table and the sticky mess that emerged from the carcass as the vet explored its remains. He heard someone else gagging at the disgusting squelching sound as various bones and innards were cut free.  Stiles slipped his shoe onto his foot and hobbled over, holding his injured arm loosely in front of his body.  He chanced a look at the table, his breath hitching as he watched the heart expand and contract where it sat atop the steel.  It showed no signs of stopping, and Stiles swallowed anxiously and cringed as the beating sound thrummed loudly inside his head.

“That’s….creepy,” Stiles mumbled.

“I’m not quite sure what to make of it,” Deaton huffed, taking a moment to sterilize his tools.  He packed up his supplies methodically, washed his hands, and then turned towards Stiles with probing eyes.

“So Stiles, you conjured fire,” Deaton spoke easily, as though it wasn’t the first time he’d heard of such a thing.  There was a spark of something behind his eyes, interest, or curiosity, but he didn’t seem all that impressed by the feat.  Stiles frowned and looked down at his fingers, acknowledging the pain again.  He noticed for the first time the strange residue clinging to his skin, some kind of cream, likely a creation of Deaton’s meant to help heal burns.  He brought his fingers to his nose, sniffing carefully only to reel back at the strong scent that invaded his nostrils.

“Heh, yeah, I…I guess I did,” Stiles muttered, holding his hand away from his face.  It was strange.  He didn’t feel any different.  Certainly not like all of those mutants that came into their powers and had a sudden life changing experience.  All he had was a burnt up mess of a hand and jumbled memories.  But heck, he’d take that over being a plain old human being any day of the week.

“It was totally badass, though it would have been better if I hadn’t burned the crap out of my skin,” Stiles added, and he couldn’t help but grin widely at the prospects.

“What were you thinking of in that moment?” Deaton asked, moving closer to inspect the blistering skin.  The vet’s fingers rechecked his handiwork, twisting Stiles’s hand over to examine his palm as well before dabbing some more of the rancid substance in a few particularly sensitive spots.

“Uh…,” Stiles blurted, his eyes glancing around the room before stopping on a point near his feet.

“M-my dad,” he stuttered softly, though in a room full of werewolves it was unlikely it went unheard.  Derek shifted against the wall, and the small movement was enough to make Stiles nibble at his lip.

“Do you remember anything else in particular?” Deaton probed, dropping the hand in his grasp to move back towards his shelves.

“I…was looking up at the moon.  I couldn’t see much else.  And next thing I knew…I was burning, from the inside out, and then suddenly, so was she,” Stiles explained, frowning as he struggled to remember what exactly happened.  There were other things he left out, like the intense fear running through his veins, the incredible amount of pain, the way he’d begged for help, and the maddened laughter he’d heard.  He didn’t need the pack thinking he was completely unstable…even if he was. 

Deaton looked over his shoulder at the teen, eyes narrowed like he knew there was more to it, before he turned back to the shelves and began pulling books into his arms.

“Much of this world is still a mystery to me, but I think it’s safe to say something may have granted you power in a time of need.  Regardless, it could not have happened had you not possessed an affinity for the elements.  Fire does not just appear for anyone, even cast under a new moon.  Very intriguing,” Deaton rambled.  He flipped through a few pages and paused, leaning back against the shelf as he peered at Stiles intently.

“Can you show me?” Deaton asked, and Stiles froze, taking in the expectant looks from everyone in the room.  He swallowed nervously, uncomfortable at the centre of attention.  It made him feel jumpy, and he had to grasp his wrist to keep his fingers from fidgeting in the folds of his shirt.  Stiles blinked rapidly and stared down at his hand, frowning in concentration.  Normally he might have done some goofy dramatic super hero pose, but the sight of his burned skin had him faltering and trembling in apprehension.     

“I…I’m not too sure how to, and…I don’t want to get burned again,” Stiles whispered.  Jackson snorted and muttered something under his breath, but Allison shoved the teen lightly and he shut up and crossed his arms in defense.  Stiles frowned, already feeling like he was disappointing the pack.  He finally had some kind of magical ability and he was too much of a coward to show it off.  Deaton for his part merely nodded, flipping through a few pages in a rather hefty sized tome.

“You must have felt a very strong connection to the element in that moment,” Deaton commented.  He added another book to the stack in his arms before turning around and placing the pile on the table between them. “It will take practise, and patience.  But I’m sure in time you’ll learn to control it at will.  Until then, I have some books that might help.  Meditation and focus are the first steps in attaining control, especially if you don’t want to end up getting singed again.”

“My own personal Professor X,” Stiles joked.  He immediately started sifting through the books, trying his best to ignore the continuous throbbing of his arm.  His fingers tightened and he wondered how on earth he was going to hide this injury from his dad.  Looked like he was in for a long period of creative hand placement and stretching the truth.  Stiles sighed; he hated lying to his dad.

The room settled into quiet conversation as Stiles read the titles on the books curiously.  _Meditation and the art of Self Discovery,_ _Elemental Magicks_ , _Communing with Nature,_ and _Moon Magick: Casting and the Lunar Cycle._   Stiles frowned at the last title, his hand hovering over the cover suspiciously. Deaton was unnaturally perceptive sometimes. 

Stiles itched to read the books, and he flipped open the cover of the first, wincing as the pages grazed his tender skin.  It would take him a while to get used to not using his hand as much. He hunched over and splayed his fingers across the worn paper, absorbing whatever information he could.  It was fascinating, just like everything in the supernatural world, and he lost track of time as he became engrossed in the book.  After several minutes he felt that familiar tingle at the back of his neck, the one he got whenever there were eyes on him, but everyone seemed preoccupied with other things.  Stiles peered out of the corner of his eye, casually looking around the room. 

The rest of the pack was still tense, like they were walking on eggshells around each other, but they were clustered in tiny groups and talking in low voices.  All except one.  Derek was alone, and he was staring at Stiles, or more specifically at his hand, like he wanted to cut it off.   When blood red eyes met his own, Stiles flinched and looked away, his face paling as he tried to steady his rapid heartbeat.  He pretended to continue reading but the words blurred and jumbled together on the page.  When Deaton finally kicked them out Stiles scrambled away from the clinic, hastily tossing the books in his jeep before driving off.  He felt eyes on him the entire ride home.       

* * *

“Dude, what’s up with Derek, why isn’t he talking to anyone,” Stiles hissed, and he poked Scott in the back with a pencil when the teen continued facing forwards.  Scott tilted his head backwards, and Stiles took the opportunity to prod at his head with the tiny eraser, squishing the dark locks of hair beneath its pressure.

“I mean…not that he usually talks much, but you know what I’m getting at here,” Stiles muttered.  In truth he was still a bit freaked out about the way Derek had looked at him.  Like he was food.  Or prey. Or both. 

“What happened last night?” He asked, slumping over his desk.  He was tired, had barely slept the night prior, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.  Instead Stiles lay awake in bed well into the wee hours of the night, reading through one of the books Deaton had sent him home with.  His pain hadn’t lessened, and in fact he felt even worse now that whatever creams Deaton had used on his skin were wearing off.  His hand was wrapped loosely in bandages, and he had his sleeve pulled down so it hung off the tips of his fingers to hide them. 

Scott twisted in his chair, pushing the pencil away from his face as he leaned in close.

“He’s an alpha now, a true alpha,” Scott whispered, staring at Stiles like that explained everything.

“Okay…and…that’s bad why?” Stiles asked, gesturing wildly, the pencil bouncing in his grip.  Scott sighed and slouched further in his seat.

“Everything’s different now.  The pack…it’s…it just…it feels different,” Scott spoke lowly.

“Real eloquent dude, wanna try explaining with actual words, for a plebeian like me,” Stiles drawled.  Not for the first time a part of him wished he was a werewolf.  Maybe then he’d understand what the heck the rift between everyone was all about.  Not to mention his burns would have long since healed.

“He’s in charge now, and it doesn’t feel right…it’s like it’s broken or something,” Scott said, his body twisting as he propped his arm on the back of his seat.  Stiles sat up straight, looking around them oddly.

“Wasn’t he already in charge?” Stiles asked, his mouth gaping open like a fish as his eyebrows scrunched together.  Scott sighed heavily.

“Yeah, I guess, but now…we _have_ to do what he says, there’s no choice, just this…compulsion,” the werewolf ran a hand through his hair in frustration and turned around as students started filing into the room. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Stiles sat back in his seat, tuning out the teacher as he looked over at Allison for support.  She shrugged, looking every bit as confused. At least he wasn’t completely alone in that. 

* * *

It sucked that something was finally going right for him and suddenly things went to shit. 

I mean he had powers, like super human powers.  And yeah, he had no clue how to use them, but he’d figure it out eventually, and that meant he might actually become useful to the pack.  But at current there was no pack.  Everyone was avoiding Derek, and they hadn’t had a proper meeting in days, not even for training or testing control.  Jackson was naturally stubborn and started isolating himself, Boyd and Erica were threatening to leave again, and Isaac, well he just seemed afraid.  Derek hadn’t contacted any of them, and no one wanted to take that step to make contact with him instead.  After all, they usually met on his property, and suddenly his property was off limits.  The wolves refused to even cross into the preserve.  Something about territory, and alphas, and a whole lot of mumbo jumbo that went right over Stiles’s head. 

Deaton offered little help, far more interested in criticising Stiles for his lack of focus and inability to meditate properly.  Every visit to the vet quickly turned into a mini lecture, and any questions asked about pack relations were evaded or ignored.  Apparently their childish squabble was of no concern to Deaton, and they were left on their own to solve that particular problem.  Unfortunately Stiles had never met a more emotionally constipated group of individuals in his life. 

As one of the resident humans in the know, Stiles felt obligated to take the step that no one else was willing to.  Which is why he found himself driving through the preserve towards the Hale house on a Tuesday afternoon instead of going to lacrosse practise.  He may not have been a wolf, and he may not have actually been able to feel the moment he crossed over into another pack member’s territory, but it didn’t prevent the butterflies from fluttering about in his stomach.  He took a deep breath and mentally convinced himself everything would be fine.  He’d just talk to Derek, let him know what was up, tell him to stop being such a sourwolf and invite the pack over for a movie or something.  With his nonexistent TV.  On his nonexistent sofas.  Yeah, that could work.

Stiles nodded absentmindedly.  The plan was great, fantastic even, but very short-lived.  Stiles felt his heart sinking when the old house came into view and he spotted Derek outside with a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder.  The jeep slowed to a stop and Stiles peered through his windows as he watched the werewolf toss his belongings into the back of the Camaro.  Derek looked particularly intent on leaving, and hardly batted an eye at the approach of another vehicle.  Stiles fumbled his keys in the ignition as he kicked the door open, battling against the rusted hinges.  His seatbelt held him firmly in place, and Stiles scrambled to unlatch it, practically falling to the forest floor.  His foot caught in the strap, and he had to wrangle himself out of its grasp without losing his balance and falling flat on his face.

By the time he got to Derek’s side the werewolf was standing with the Camaro’s driver side door open, looking at him impatiently.  It was the first time Stiles had seen him since the night in the park, and he was surprised to find familiar hazel eyes looking back at him instead of the alpha red that haunted his dreams. 

“Where are you going?” Stiles asked, his voice high pitched and airy.  He felt like he’d run a marathon between the two vehicles, even though it was a distance of only a few metres at most. 

“Somewhere else,” the werewolf voiced.  Derek’s jaw tensed as he clenched his teeth and raised his gaze to the tree line.  Stiles’s heart skipped a beat at the words, and he staggered slightly, feeling like the ground was falling out from beneath his feet.

“Wha-no no no, you can’t just leave,” Stiles stuttered, his hands flailing , the sleeve of his shirt inching up to reveal his still bandaged hand.  Derek’s eyes flicked towards it, widening as they locked onto the long wrapped digits.

“They need you, your pack needs you…I-,” Stiles faltered, kicking a foot into the ground as he breathed out and ran trembling fingers through his hair. He’d been about to say something completely ridiculous and highly embarrassing.  Something he’d promised himself never to voice aloud. A teenage confession of love would do little else than send the other man running to the other side of the world.  Derek eyed him suspiciously, and Stiles briefly wondered if he could read his mind as well as sift through his lies.

“They’re not my pack.  I’m not suited to be their alpha.  It’s not my place,” Derek huffed, and his grip tightened on the doorframe.

“What are you talking about!? If not you then who?” Stiles gasped.  He fell back and let out an annoyed groan, putting his hands on his hips as he looked up towards the sky.

“I didn’t bite them.  They don’t respect me, not like that, and I can’t control them while they are resisting the bond,” Derek said. “My presence just sets them on edge now.”

“That’s not true.  You were doing fine, before this alpha business happened, I don’t get it, why’s it different now?  Can’t you just…continue on doing what you were doing before?” Stiles asked, his hands thrown out to his sides. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Derek sneered.  Stiles fumed at the comment, storming up to Derek’s side and pressing a finger into the werewolf’s chest.  It met with solid muscle, and Stiles poked the spot repeatedly to no avail.

“I’m tired of people telling me I wouldn’t understand,” Stiles grumbled.  The two stood in silence for a moment, Derek’s chest expanding and contracting while Stiles’s finger left a wrinkled mark in the fabric of his shirt.  He could have stood there staring at it for days, but eventually Derek gripped the digit firmly and pushed it away.

“You don’t know what it’s like, having a pack bond,” Derek growled, and the words stung more than Stiles cared to admit.

“I can feel everything.  I know what they see when they look at me, I know what they think of me.  I can’t protect them, and they feel my weakness,” the werewolf spoke, still refusing to make eye contact as he stared out at the trees around them. “To them, I’m not an alpha, and I never will be.”

Stiles shook his head in disbelief.  He couldn’t just let Derek walk away.

“It’ll take time, but they’ll come around.  You’ll be great!” Stiles encouraged with a light slap to the werewolf’s arm.  He received a glare for his effort and let his arm fall back to his side, the grin slipping from his face as he took in the other man’s stiff posture.  His time was running out, and he knew if he didn’t come up with something convincing soon, it might be the last time he ever saw the brooding werewolf.  And that quite frankly terrified him.

“Derek…,” Stiles trailed off, searching his mind frantically for the right words to say.  A chill ran up his spine as desperation took over, and he stood there with his mouth opening and closing unable to say anything at all.  It wasn’t until Derek moved to step into the car that Stiles lurched forward, gripping the car door frantically.        

“Please don’t go,” Stiles blurted, the words strung so close together and spoken so fast he was surprised Derek understood them at all.  The werewolf actually paused, looking him right in the eyes for the first time since he’d arrived.  It wasn’t a glare so much as a searching stare, and Stiles felt his knees weakening the longer he went without blinking.  Derek’s eyes flitted over his face, taking in the moles and features thoroughly, and Stiles faltered, feeling his skin heat and his heart rate double in a matter of seconds. When the eyes lowered, he felt the ghost of a touch against his chest, and he flinched as Derek’s fingers grazed the still sensitive skin atop his heart.  The beating sped up even further, and must have sounded like a jackhammer to the werewolf’s sensitive ears.  Stiles flushed up his neck, to the tips of his ears, and he stopped breathing altogether. The fingers clenched, like Derek was deciding what to do with them. A moment later and they were gone, and Derek was in the car driving away, leaving Stiles to hold his arms out to his sides as he flailed them in defeat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a bunch to anyone still reading, and for being patient with my updates. Here's the longest chapter yet, hope you like it :). I'd love to hear from you all!

The next few days were nearly unbearable.  If things were broken before Derek left, now they were almost irreparably shattered.  The pack was a mess, Derek’s disappearance affecting each and every one of them, even if they chose not to voice it.  No matter what the alpha felt, it was clear he was the one thing holding them all together.  Tensions were high, and everyone was snapping at one another for the stupidest of things. 

It only got worse with the full moon.

It wasn’t supposed to be dangerous.  The werewolves were just going to run through the preserve like always and head back to the Hale house for sunrise.  It was important to let their inner wolves run free, at least for a little while, or control throughout the rest of the month would become nearly impossible.  One of many things Derek had made sure they were aware of.  Boyd and Erica were the best at controlling their wolves, so Boyd’s job was keeping everyone within the borders while Erica scouted close by for possible trespassers.  No one wanted an accidental murder on their hands.

Most importantly, they were to stick together.  Humans and banshee with humans and banshee, and wolves with wolves.

As the sun set Stiles parked his jeep on the side of the road just outside the preserve under the cover of some overhanging trees.  Allison and Lydia chatted away in the backseat and he watched them through the rear-view mirror, wishing he could take part in the conversation, but the last time he spoke up Lydia had nearly killed him with her gaze alone.  He took the hint, sitting quietly as he pouted and flipped through one of Deaton’s books idly. It was one of the few he lacked any real interest in.  Meditation was not one of his strengths.  But the three of them had several hours of waiting to look forward to until it was safe to venture into the preserve without the fear of becoming dinner, and he needed to do something to keep occupied.

As the time ticked by his eyes drooped, and his body slumped, until finally he let his head fall forwards against his chest.  He was out cold, and he stayed like that until Allison practically crawled into the front seat, pushing herself over his body to look out the window with widened eyes.  Stiles jerked awake, blinking rapidly as he flailed a bit in confusion. There was a line of drool hanging from his mouth and he wiped it away with flushed cheeks, looking about to make sure no one else noticed, but both girls were looking elsewhere.

“Shit,” Allison muttered, her hands pressed against the glass of his windshield.

“Wha-? What? What is it?” Stiles gasped, sitting up as he squeezed his face beside hers to get a better view.  His cheek pressed against the glass as he squinted out into the darkness.  He could see a vehicle pulled off the road just a few metres ahead, the red brake lights shining brightly.

“I’ve seen that car before,” Allison whispered, her jaw tensing as the lights went out.

“Family?” Stiles asked, and he vaguely noticed when Lydia moved forwards, her manicured fingernails wrapping around the edge of his seat.

“No,” she hissed, her teeth clenched.  Stiles swallowed nervously and peered through the glass, subconsciously ducking low in his seat when several people got out of the car.  He knew they were well hidden, but it was instinct.  A moment later the strangers were unloading guns and rifles, gearing up to set foot into the preserve.

“Oh…sh-,” Stiles began, but then one of Allison’s elbows caught him in the ribs as she climbed back to grab her bow and he wheezed and hunched over in the seat.

“We have to go, we have to warn the others,” Allison spoke quickly, and Stiles fumbled beneath his seat to snag his bat while she dialled Scott on her cell. 

“No answer,” she groaned, and Lydia roller her eyes. 

“Maybe the claws don’t work on his touch screen,” the redhead sneered while Allison glared right back.

“I had to try!” the archer hissed.  She started furiously dialling again as they slipped out the side door and ducked low, and Stiles vaguely noticed that she was talking to Chris Argent before focusing on finding a safe path through the trees.  There wasn’t much they could do but run as fast as possible and hope they found the wolves before the hunters did.  It wasn’t that far off their planned meeting time, so hopefully everyone was at least heading towards the Hale house.

Stiles ran blindly, occasionally checking to his right and left to make sure Allison and Lydia were still close by.  The redhead glanced towards him briefly, turning to look back ahead after a quick nod.  The three of them raced through the trees, their heavy breaths the only sound between them, until Stiles ran into something solid and fell to the ground with a loud thump.

“Oof!” he groaned, blinking rapidly as he tried to steady his vision.  He saw a shadow standing over him, with two golden eyes that looked right into his own.

“Stiles?” Scott voiced, and Stiles sighed in relief as a clawed hand reached out to help him up.

“Dude!  Warn a guy!” Stiles sputtered as he got back on his feet.  Allison and Lydia were catching their breath beside him and Isaac stood just behind his friend, eyeing Stiles warily and baring his teeth, clearly a little less in control of his wolf. 

“Where are the others?” Stiles asked as he ignored the growls directed at him.

“Boyd ran off after Erica when she threw a shit fit, and Jackson…he went feral and disappeared,” Scott explained, shrugging sheepishly when he received three matching stares of disbelief.  There was a muttered curse, and Stiles ran long fingers through his hair while Lydia wrapped her arms tight around her body.

“What’s going on?  Why aren’t you in the jeep?” Scott asked, concern visible in his gaze. 

“Hunters,” Allison whispered, looking out towards the trees with wide eyes.  Scott’s eyebrows rose and he looked out into the darkness, raising his chin slightly to scent the air.  His body went unnaturally still, his pointed ears shifting slightly as he swallowed and reached out to grab Allison’s arm.

“What, what is it?” Stiles blurted, his eyes darting in every direction and seeing nothing but the silhouettes of trees.

“They’re here, run!” Scott growled, and he was off.  Everyone scattered, heading in a different direction and Stiles stood there for a moment staring helplessly at the forest around him.  He let out an exasperated huff of air and held his hands up in front of him in frustration.

“Idiots,” Stiles muttered lowly. Stay together, they were supposed to stay together.  That was the most important rule.

It was the gunfire that jolted him into moving, and Stiles scrambled through the trees in what he thought was the direction of the pack house.  He heard a pained howl not too far away, along with raised voices he didn’t recognize, and it had him pausing and changing direction.  The clouds shifted above and moonlight seeped through the branches, lighting up the ground ahead just enough for Stiles to avoid tripping over roots.  It was also how he noticed the prone body sprawled across the forest floor.  The teen halted, tensing as he stared at the form of a werewolf, bloody and still, breathing heavily.  He gritted his teeth and ran towards it, falling to his knees at its side.  Stiles recognized the torn up shirt immediately, and sure enough he could barely make out Jackson’s scowling face behind the sharp fangs and thickened hair.  He was heaving, completely wolfed out, and bleeding profusely from his chest.  Stiles had enough time to count three bullet wounds before he heard leaves crunching, and he whipped his head around, his heart seizing as two hunters cocked their guns and aimed towards him. 

“Get out of the way kid,” One of them said, his finger readied over the trigger.  Stiles didn’t react, his lips tightening when Jackson let out a pained cough.  It sounded far too wet. 

“If you know what’s good for you you’ll get the hell out of here,” the same hunter warned, his head lowering as he stared down the barrel of his gun.

“We should kill him, he’s seen too much,” the second hunter hissed from behind, and Stiles fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his bat.  So much for a code.  No wonder Allison reacted so badly.  He didn’t know what to do. He was up shit’s creek without a paddle.  Because really, what good was a baseball bat when you were ten feet away from your opponent, and your opponent was ranged and trained for headshots on animals three times as fast.  Shadows shifted over his face as clouds obscured the full moon, and he wondered what he looked like, on his knees and trembling in fear. 

Stiles heard hunter number two mutter something impatiently, and he steeled himself for what was to come only to gape in surprise as something flew from the trees and tackled the man to the ground.  Hunter one turned, firing randomly as the screams of his companion echoed through the woods, and Stiles forced himself to his feet, running at him with a shout.  He swung hard, whacking the man over the head with his bat and knocking him out in one shot.       

Stiles grinned in relief, turning towards the large werewolf still busy tearing into the other hunter, and for a moment he thought it was Derek.  Happiness surged through his veins, racing up his spine, and it left him feeling exhilarated until golden eyes focused on him and Stiles took in Boyd’s stony face.  The werewolf studied him for a moment, growled low, and then turned to head back into the forest.

“Boyd wait!” Stiles shouted, his hand outstretched towards the other teen anxiously.  The werewolf turned towards him again, and Stiles took a deep breath and gestured to Jackson.

“I need your help.  Jackson…he’s…he’s shot,” Stiles stuttered, his eyes flickering between the two while Boyd considered him. 

“Come on man, please,” Stiles begged, his free hand flexing fretfully.  There was no way he could carry a werewolf through the preserve by himself, not if he wanted any chance of saving him.  Jackson coughed a few times and it was enough to push the larger werewolf into action.

Several minutes later and the two of them were dragging Jackson’s body into the pack house, ignoring the other teens that crowded around them.  A few of them were missing still, and Stiles hoped they were safe.  With any luck Chris had arrived on the scene and herded away the other hunters before they found another wolf to attack.  Stiles skidded to a halt inside the house, scrambling to find the supply bag he kept hidden beneath the floorboards while Boyd settled the injured werewolf in the middle of the entryway.  Jackson was groaning low in his throat, sweating and shaking in pain, and Stiles could barely see the veins darkening around the bullet wounds, spreading out along his skin.  He’d lost a lot of blood, and if that didn’t kill him first, the wolfsbane certainly would.

“Get out of the way!” Stiles yelled, pushing Lydia aside as she yanked on his shirt and hissed words at him that went unheard.  His gaze landed on her tearful eyes, and he felt his heart ache for her.

“Lyds, shit…Lydia I’m sorry, I’m sorry okay?” Stiles murmured, yanking his bag tight against his chest.  She backed away and lowered her head.

“You better save him,” she whispered.  All Stiles could do was nod, even as his thoughts warred inside his head.  He hadn’t been training with Deaton for nothing, but this time the threat was real. 

Stiles stumbled to his knees beside Jackson’s shivering body and dumped the contents of his bag onto the floor as he searched through the objects in a frenzy.  He cut away the remnants of the torn shirt with surprisingly steady hands, but as he held pliers over the entry wounds his fingers shook and betrayed his nervousness.  His vision was hazy, and his breathing unstable, but he forced himself to dig out the bullets with as much care as he could manage.  He only gagged a little bit at the blood.

Okay, he gagged a lot.

When the last bullet clinked on the wooden panels below, Stiles dropped the pliers, letting them clatter to the floor.  He wiped bloody hands across his face, taking in the damage with frightened eyes.  It was way worse than he thought.  The wolfsbane was spreading fast, and Jackson was looking paler with every passing second as his wolf struggled to fix impossible to heal wounds.

“He’s dying, we need to hurry!” Allison shouted.  Stiles startled, stretching out his fingers as he clenched them in his hair.

“I know I know, fuck,” Stiles gasped, his breathing quickening as he looked from his supplies to Jackson and back again.  He was panicking, and he couldn’t focus.  His fingers trembled as they hovered over the different vials of wolfsbane kept inside his pack, unsure which ones would help and which would mean certain death.  His nails dragged along the corks, and the glass clinked together.  People were arguing around him, voices that mingled together to become a solid background noise.  So much noise, chaos, anxiety, and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see. 

“Stiles, breathe, calm down,” Allison spoke, softer this time, and she reached over Jackson to grip his shoulder.  Stiles noticed for the first time that she was pressing a cloth against the bullet wounds, trying to stop them from bleeding quite so much.

“You know how to do this, you’ve studied this,” she reassured him, staring into his eyes until he took a deep breath. Thank goodness one of them was level headed in the face of crisis.  Stiles closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to remember some of the meditation techniques he’d read about earlier that day.  He couldn’t make his mind go blank, not like many forms of meditation required.  He couldn’t focus on just one thing, he couldn’t force away the thoughts until there was just a single entity.  But there was another technique he was able to try.  Instead of focusing on a singular entity he listened to all of his senses, taking in everything around him, every sound, every feeling, every smell.  He felt the breeze on his skin, sneaking in through the cracks in the walls, he listened to the members of the pack fighting and growling, separating their voices from one another.  He heard Jackson’s quiet whimpers, he felt the roughened wood beneath his fingertips, the hard edges of nails poking into his knees, and he sensed the moonlight, saw it through the shadow of his lashes, the way it burned into his skin like it was as strong as the sun.  His eyes opened and he nodded, ready to proceed.

“Now, which strain of wolfsbane is it?” Allison asked.

“Shit I dunno,” Stiles said with a shake of his head.  His throat clenched and he leaned forwards to look at the wounds more intently.

“Smell it, is it bitter?  Is it musky?  There’s differences right?” she pushed, and Stiles nodded, grateful that she had some knowledge on the subject from her family’s line of work. Stiles recalled his lessons with Deaton, specifically one in which the vet had him sniff as many as a hundred different vials of the herb until he could accurately name one of seven different variations.  His nose had felt like it was falling off by the end.  But some of them were so close in nature, it was impossible to tell the difference unless they were side by side.  And of course he would be assuming it wasn’t something new.

“B, D, or…E,” Stiles muttered, bending low so he could get closer.

“There’s so much blood, oh shit, fuck fuck,” Stiles hissed, and the grip on his arm tightened again, grounding him enough to continue.

“And the colour of the blood…look at the skin around to wound too Stiles,” Allison encouraged. He saw the way the blood was turning at the edges, changing to a darker colour than was natural, and the unique pattern of the veins as they spread out from the wounds.  There was a strange rash beginning to form, and it suddenly clicked.

“Strain D,” he declared, and he grabbed the vial from his satchel and hurried to uncork it, pressing some of the ground up powder into each wound.  Jackson jerked with each contact, but the skin lightened, the veins slowly disappeared, and his fever dropped significantly.

“Oh shit, shit yeah, it worked,” Stiles heaved.  He wanted to puke, the adrenaline coursing through his body had him so high strung.  He leaned back, watching as the wounds began to mend themselves like they were meant to, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I’ll make sure they close, go clean up,” Allison murmured, her lips forming a friendly smile that Stiles returned shakily.  Stiles got to his feet, feeling worn and detached from reality.  He just wanted to sleep for days.  But the noise came back, loud and invasive, and he realized the fighting around them had only escalated.  Sometime while he was working Erica had returned, and the female werewolf was not in a good mood.  She was snarling at Lydia, the two of them yelling at one another, throwing accusations back and forth that made no sense.  Scott was staring Boyd down and looked ready to pounce, both werewolves practically feral.  Isaac was huddled in a corner, hissing as he wrapped arms around himself fearfully.   It was clear he didn’t like the fighting either.

“Hey! Would you guys stop it already!  Jackson almost died!  I don’t even like the guy but come on, get your shit together, this isn’t the time,” Stiles shouted at them, bloody hands reaching out to his sides.

“Maybe if you could figure out how to use your damn fire this wouldn’t have happened,” Erica snapped at him, and Stiles faltered, his brow crumpling in confusion. 

“Woah, low blow,” he muttered under his breath, not entirely sure where such a comment even stemmed from.  He hadn’t even been there when Jackson was shot.  And none of them had been expecting out of town hunters to make an appearance.  Scott suddenly forgot about Boyd, lunging at Erica instead, but the large werewolf followed, and the three of them ended up in a pile on the ground, clawing at each other with snapping teeth.  Lydia was screaming, and Stiles winced as the sound pierced his ears, the werewolves flinching but continuing to fight regardless.

“Would all of you stop it already!” Stiles cried, and he gritted his teeth and stormed closer, trying to pry the wolves apart despite their superior strength.  He really didn’t think they would hurt him, didn’t expect them to be so out of control.  But then Scott turned glowing eyes on him and snarled.  He felt the shove to his front before he saw it, and wasn’t ready for the pain that followed.  He couldn’t breathe, and then wood was breaking against his back, his ears ringing as his vision whited out.  He blinked the spots from his eyes with a gasp and found himself staring up at the cloudy night sky.

“-iles…,”

Stiles coughed several times, gasping painfully as air once again filled his lungs.  Everything hurt.  His back and chest especially, but he must have hit his shoulder and legs somewhere along the way as well because they were screaming at him.  

“Stiles!” Scott yelled, and Stiles stared up at his friend’s dark hair and guilt ridden face, his head spinning.

“Stiles, I’m so sorry!” Scott cried.  He reached out with no longer clawed hands, but withdrew them when his friend flinched from the touch.  Stiles pushed the werewolf away and sat up gingerly, grateful that nothing seemed broken, but he was still having a bit of trouble catching his breath.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Stiles croaked, his head aching as he stared straight ahead.  There was a giant hole in the wall of Derek’s house, just one more flaw to add to the dilapidated building.  But the most shocking thing was how far away from the building he sat.  He must have flown more than fourty feet. 

At least the pack wasn’t fighting anymore.  Boyd and Erica stood stunned behind the newly made hole, and Lydia was hesitantly walking towards him, staring at him like he might break into a billion pieces at any moment.  Even Allison hovered behind the group, wiping her hands on a cloth as she inspected the scene with worried eyes. 

Scott was frantic at his side, hands clinging together as he blurted apologies rapidly.  It was obvious he wanted to help Stiles up, but the teen ignored his offered support, pushing himself to his knees as he shoved his friend’s arms away.

“Don’t, I’ll…I’ve got it,” Stiles muttered.  He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, standing up with a bit of a hobble.  He felt unsteady and off kilter, but he just really didn’t want to be there anymore.  He was done.  So so done with werewolves.  For the night anyway.

“You know…you acted like Derek was what was wrong with this pack,” Stiles said, his voice strained even to his own ears.  “But honestly, maybe he was the only thing right about it.”  He watched the hurt flash in his friend’s eyes, but couldn’t be bothered by it in that moment.  The only thing he cared about was getting home to his bed.

* * *

Stiles swung his feet back and forth, occasionally letting his heels fall back to knock against the cupboards below. He was sitting on one of the countertops in Deaton’s clinic, reading as always while the vet was checking up on a particularly lively cat.  The tabby kept trying to wrap its paws around Deaton’s arm while he was looking it over, but the man just kept working diligently, hardly altering his expression at all.   In fact Deaton looked pretty much the same way he always did except for a few tiny details, details which Stiles noticed. His face was drawn more than usual, his lips turned down slightly at the edges, and there was a crease between his eyebrows that appeared more prominent than the last time Stiles saw the man’s face.

“You look…tired,” Stiles commented as he turned the page to start a new chapter.  He licked his lips and tapped his fingers against the cover, watching the man pause in his work, the cat hanging from his arm playfully.

“I’ve been…consumed by the matter of that creature’s heart.  I hear it…beating.  Even when it’s not within my sight,” the vet explained, his eyes slightly distant as the muscles in his jaw tensed and released.   Stiles narrowed his eyes, his fingers stilling as he pursed his lips.  There was nothing in the bestiary that mentioned such a thing specifically.  He’d scoured through the notes more than once searching for something, but he still had no idea what the creature was that attacked them in the park. 

“Shouldn’t we destroy it?” Stiles asked with a raised eyebrow.  It was the obvious thing to do after all.  No one actually wanted to keep a perpetually beating bloody heart just lying around, no one sane that is.  Not even Deaton.  At least Stiles sincerely hoped Deaton wasn’t into that sort of thing.  Because really that brought a lot more questions into play and they needed to have a serious conversation about the man’s mental health if that was the case.

“I’ve tried,” Deaton stated, finally giving up on checking the cat’s teeth, instead standing straight as he shook away the batting paws.

“Thus far the organ has proved impervious to all of my methods,” the vet muttered. He gripped his chin in his left hand, clearly still searching his mind for answers.  Deaton shook his head lightly and turned his gaze towards Stiles.

“How are you faring, any progress with your…elemental studies?” Deaton inquired, while Stiles pursed his lips and scrunched up his nose in frustration.  The teen had tried several times to conjure fire again, spending hours at a time in the preserve with tin cans set up like targets.  And that was an accomplishment for him, as usually he couldn’t manage to work on one thing for longer than a few minutes at a time.  Unfortunately his diligence had not made any difference.  He couldn’t so much as warm the air.  Stiles was starting to think it had been a fluke. 

“Nothing yet.  My hand’s still a bit stiff too,” Stiles mentioned before he jumped off the countertop and set his book aside.  Stiles reached out towards the cat and grinned when it rubbed against his arms and started purring. 

“You should practise controlling a pre-existing flame, rather than trying to create one from scratch,” Deaton suggested, his arms resting lightly on the table. “Will creation is extremely rare, and much more straining on the spirit.”

“But I did it once already,” Stiles blurted, his hands pausing in their rhythmic movements.  The cat butted its head against his forearm, easily coercing him into resuming his petting motions.

“You were threatened, and it was the first time.  Don’t expect it to come so easily or so strongly in the future.  You may never be able to do that again,” Deaton spoke lowly, and Stiles frowned at his words.  He didn’t want it to be a one-time thing.  He wanted to have something he could rely on, something he could use when the pack was in need.  If it wasn’t reliable, it wasn’t useful.  _He_ wasn’t useful.  Stiles felt his chest getting tighter the more he thought about it, but he was jerked from his self-deprecation at a tug against his neck.  Stiles blinked and looked down, eyeing the cat that clasped one of the cords from his hoodie between pointed teeth. It rolled over on its back, attention completely focused on its newfound prize.

“Oh, I see, you weren’t interested in me at all.  You just wanted my tassel.  Typical,” Stiles groaned with a pout.  He heard the vet let out a small huff of air, and when Stiles looked up there was a hint of a smile on Deaton’s face, though it was quickly masked by his emotionless façade. Stiles sighed and hunched over, surrendering his shirt to the animal as he stared at his hands woefully.  Why wasn’t anything ever easy?

* * *

Stiles’s ability to focus was at an all-time low, and he bounced his leg and tapped his pencil so much in class it got him three detentions in the span of a week.  Everything just felt…off.  Stiles felt strangely unbalanced with the pack on edge and hardly interacting with one another at all.  On top of that Scott’s expressions were an unbearable combination of guilt and puppy eyed worry that finally pushed Stiles to punch him on the arm one day before pulling him into a hug.  His friend had gripped him to the point that Stiles was winded and left with even more bruising than he already had, but it was worth it if it meant they were back to being best bros. 

Stiles didn’t blame him, not really.  Scott was still learning how to control his wolf, and it was stupid to intervene at all when he was wolfed out and angry, let alone on the night of the full moon.  Scott was visibly relieved, but it didn’t stop the other teen from checking up on Stiles at every available opportunity, and honestly Scott should have had just as many detentions for the sheer fact that the back of his head was facing the blackboard more than the front. Stiles tried to brush him off with lopsided grins and his questionable sense of humour. He appreciated the concern, but the unfamiliar twisting in his gut wasn’t something another person could solve.

Stiles found himself driving out to the Hale house in the evenings, sitting on the front porch and just staring into the trees.  Like a dog waiting for his owner to return home from work.  It was pathetic. When he wasn’t at the pack house, though it could hardly be called that anymore since no one else seemed inclined to visit, Stiles spent his time at what he’d officially penned _his tree_. He liked the small amount of solace it provided him, the strange sense of calm he could achieve while resting beneath its shade.  It reminded him of home, felt the same, smelled the same, odd as that was.  And he supposed a part of it reminded him of Derek too. 

Stiles sighed and let his head fall back against the bark, the rough texture catching on his hair and pulling at the short strands.  The tree almost echoed his sour mood, the branches sagging more than usual as the leaves wilted, drawn towards the ground.  It was peculiar.  The rest of the forest was thriving, and the weather wasn’t cool enough for such a thing.

He slumped against the trunk and reached for his bag, pulling one of the books he’d taken to carrying around from inside.  Meditation was basically impossible for him lately, but the lunar calendar was at least intriguing to read about.  He already knew the phases affected the wolves, but the different magical properties that supposedly came along with them were fascinating as well. 

A pleasing scent wafted up as Stiles flipped open the cover, the spine cracking slightly due to age.  He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment as his fingers toyed with the crinkled edges of the pages.  He already liked the book and he hadn’t even started reading it.  With a renewed eagerness Stiles looked down, eyes flitting along the faded type while he absorbed the information at his usual pace.  It really was fascinating.  The book covered everything from the best times for specific magical practices to superstitious beliefs about specific days following a full moon.  Some of it was hard to believe, but there were other facts he easily accepted.  After all, if supernatural creatures bound by the full moon existed, it was easy to believe that the phases had an impact on other entities as well.  Stiles quickly flipped ahead a section, curious to know what sort of things the current moon phase had in store for him.  

“ _The duration of the waning gibbous is_ a _time to review events and correct mistakes made.  During this phase settle any unresolved disputes.  Spells that banish, release, or reverse are best cast during this time_ ,” Stiles recited.  He raised an eyebrow and squinted down at the rest of the page, doing his best to read through it all, though his eyes were growing tired and skipping lines, and the light was fading fast as the sun began to set.  Eventually Stiles sniffed and closed the cover, giving up for the time being. 

His fingers inched into a pocket, pulling out the lighter he’d taken to carrying around.  He snapped the flame to life, staring at it with pursed lips, occasionally letting his tongue sneak out to wet them.  His concentration was better in the forest, and Stiles took a deep breath before putting all of his mental energy into moving the tiny flame. He stared at it until his eyes began to water and his teeth began to ache from grinding together.  There was still no reaction, not so much as a flicker to the side, and Stiles shut the lighter with a low growl and slapped it onto the ground in frustration.

He blinked owlishly up at the darkening sky, already spotting the moon between the treetops.  Stiles eyed it anxiously, wondering how long it would be until the next threat showed its face, until the next hunters rolled into town to shoot his friends and silence them forever.  Without Derek, they wouldn’t have a chance in hell.

“Hey moon,” Stiles spoke, and the clouds obscured the celestial orb from sight for a few moments before dispersing in irregular wisps.

“You know, I could use your help here,” he muttered, rubbing at his arms as he wrapped them around his knees.

“I bet you have weird wolf manipulation powers, I figure if anyone can bring him back, it’s you,” Stiles said with a few nods.  He couldn’t bring himself to say Derek’s name like some hapless sap, pining away about a long lost love.  It was sad enough that he was literally mooning…at the moon.

“We need him, Beacon Hills needs him. I…I miss him.  Even if it’s just so I can stare at that stupid brooding face,” he continued, his eyes stinging as the moon began to blur.  Stiles blinked rapidly to ward off the oncoming tears.  He was absolutely not going to cry.  Nope.  Not a single drop would touch the skin of his face.

“It’s just not the same around these parts without our resident sourwolf, you see.  So if you could…I don’t know, give him a sign, or something…,” he trailed off.  Stiles swallowed and wiped a sleeve over his face before tucking his head between his knees.  It didn’t count if no one saw right?

“Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi.  You’re my only hope,” Stiles muttered lowly before he scoffed into the space between his legs. As if the moon ever actually acted on the things he said.  It was all just coincidence.  He didn’t have crazy magical powers, it was just a one-off, obviously.  And the moon most certainly had better things to do than listen to the whims of a teenaged boy. 

Stiles pressed long fingers into the creases of his eyes, letting the tears linger on his knuckles as he took deep shaky breaths.  His brow furrowed, and he sat crumpled up like that for a long time, falling into a restless sleep on the forest floor.  Strange visions ran through his mind, a wilted tree, with four stags biting leaves from its branches, devouring the grass around its roots.  They were cast in darkness and paid him no mind.  A snake whispered in one of his ears, an eagle in the other, but the words were little more than gibberish, and upon waking he didn’t remember it at all.  He was left only with a feeling of unrest deep in his soul and a familiar heaviness in his head that came from crying oneself to sleep. 

Stiles stretched his legs out and cleared his throat painfully, the outdoor air leaving it dry and scratchy.  A crusty residue ran along his cheekbones that he rubbed away irritably while his vision worked to find focus.  It took all of his willpower to stand up and drive to class, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, his heart aching more intensely than it ever had when he was rejected by Lydia.

* * *

Nearly two weeks had passed since the full moon when Stiles drove his jeep home from school and spotted a familiar car parked on the road in front of his house.  But it was the man leaning against it that had him swerving and nearly driving off the pavement and into his neighbour’s fire hydrant. Stiles slammed his feet on the brakes, his jeep stopping in the middle of the street as his mouth fell open in surprise.  His heart started to race, and even from so far away he could see the raised eyebrow on Derek’s perfectly sculpted face.  Stiles nearly choked on his next intake of air and he took a few moments to gather himself before driving the remaining distance home.  After pulling up the driveway he leaned out his window, gawking open-mouthed as Derek walked up to him with crossed arms. 

“You’re back,” Stiles gasped, his voice catching slightly in his throat.  It was lame, but the only thing he could manage to say.  He struggled not to stare, but he couldn’t look away.  His gaze lingered on those hazel eyes before moving down the werewolf’s neck towards the opening in his leather jacket, pausing at the bit of skin that was visible above the neckline of the werewolf’s shirt.  Had there always been a dusting of dark hairs there?  Stiles swallowed and licked his lips.  He was far too warm, and it felt so incredibly hard to just… _breathe_.  Maybe if he hadn’t been so enraptured he might have noticed the way Derek’s eyes followed the movement of his tongue as it swept out and moistened the skin beneath it.

“D-did ya miss me?” Stiles managed to stutter, a stupid grin forming on his face despite his best efforts to appear suave and cool as a cucumber.  His fingers tapped away on the steering wheel, and his right knee bobbed so energetically that his car keys clanged against it on each upward bounce.  Derek’s brow twitched, the corner of his mouth crumpling strangely.  Was he smirking?  Or was he about to throw up? Stiles couldn’t be sure.

“Pack meeting tonight, let the others know,” Derek drawled.   He paused for a moment, his gaze flicking to where Stile’s hands gripped the wheel.  The burns were still visible along the teen’s fingers, dark marks that would take ages to fade, if they ever did, but it didn’t hurt any more.  Stiles frowned at the look, and then gaped when Derek turned away without another word.

“Oh? Is that how it’s going to be? Not even so much as a hello, nice to see you again Stiles?” the teen blurted, and like magic, he was gifted with that look he missed so very much.  A glare unlike any other.  Still, Stiles never did know when to shut up.

“Say it with me, Thank you Stiles.  You were right, I was wrong,” he teased, receiving little more than an eyebrow twitch in return.  He leaned out the window, propping his arms on the edge as he smirked mischievously.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” Stiles taunted with a sudden burst of energy, but his face fell when Derek’s eyes turned red and he let out a low rumbling growl.  The werewolf lunged forwards and clenched his claws in the side of the jeep’s door, and it startled Stiles so much that he fell back against the seat with raised arms.  There was a positively vicious snarl, and a rush of warm air blew against Stiles’s skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. 

God he’d missed this.  Their interactions.  He could picture the teeth, the pointed ears, the furrowed brow.  Why was he such a masochist?  And wait, was…Derek sniffing him?  Stiles peered out of the corner of his eyes, taking in the elongated snout, and wolfy features less than an inch from his face.  He felt a flush warming his cheeks, wondering why he still found Derek so attractive, even when the man was borderline animalistic and ten seconds from biting off his face.

Stiles glanced down at his red hoodie and let out a huff of air.  How cliché.  Of course he was a picture perfect little red, except in his case, he knew exactly what he was getting into and wanted nothing more than to go full speed ahead.  Stiles wouldn’t mind being presented on a platter for the other man to devour.  His face heated further, and his breathing stuttered as his jeans became tighter against his groin.  He wondered if wolves could smell arousal.  Stiles didn’t dare look into Derek’s eyes to find out, and he snapped his mouth shut before something completely idiotic managed to slip past his lips. The other man was gone from his personal space after a hissed _tonight_ , and Stiles took a moment to relax and gather his composure as he listened to the satisfying lull of the Camaro’s engine fading away. 

Derek was back.  Derek Hale was actually back.  Beacon Hills’s very own alpha.  A small part of Stiles smirked in glee.  Oh who was he kidding, a huge part of him was grinning like an absolute lunatic. He’d asked the moon for help, and the moon had answered!  In all likelihood it was probably just sheer luck, but Stiles could pretend he had some kind of ungodly power to commune with the moon. It was kind of like controlling the elements, right? He barely refrained from cheering in his seat, instead fumbling for his phone to send a text to Scott. 

 _Pack Meeting_  
_Tonight_  
_Hale House_  
_P.S. Derek’s back and the moon totally does my bidding_

Stiles tapped his fingers against the digital keyboard like a man on a mission, occasionally stopping to edit mistakes made in his haste.  He didn’t wait for Scott’s response, instead shoving his cell in a pocket as he hurried out of the jeep.  Stiles shut the door with a little spin before slapping the exterior several times, throwing in a few whoops for good measure.  He grinned brilliantly and offered an enthusiastic wave when he caught a neighbour staring at him blatantly, far too happy to give a damn about appearances.

It was a new moon that night, and what had his book said?  _Days and nights beneath a new moon are a time for forming bonds and relationships, for new beginnings and renewing old plans too_.  Derek couldn’t have picked a better time in the lunar cycle to return home.  Or perhaps that’s what the moon intended all along.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! :) I had very little motivation for a while there. But I'm feeling much better now. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

To say Derek wasn’t pleased about the additional damage to his home would have been a vast understatement.  He stood and glared at the gaping hole in the side of his house like doing so might fill in the opening with sheer force of will.  Scott cowered under his gaze, grimacing sheepishly, and the alpha’s quick glance towards Stiles made it clear he could tell exactly what had happened and wasn’t pleased about it.  It might have been Stiles’s frighteningly fast paced heartbeat that gave it away, or perhaps the way he avoided Derek’s gaze while rubbing awkwardly at his still aching shoulder.  It was entirely possible that the Stiles shaped imprint on the ground was enough as well. 

Perhaps the scariest part of the whole encounter was the lack of conversation of any kind.  There were no snarky comments, no sarcastic snips.  Even Jackson stood stock still, though he’d been a bit less of an ass after his near death experience.  Not a single apology was muttered.  Everyone was too afraid to say anything.  The threat of Derek’s teeth had never felt so real.

The house was a sensitive subject for Derek, even though it was already in such a terrible state.  It was one of the last remaining links he had to his family.   It wasn’t difficult to connect the dots and figure out how important it was to the werewolf to keep what remained of it intact.  No sane person would shut themselves up in such a shithole unless it held a great amount of sentimental value.

There was a low rumbling growl, not threatening per se, but meaningful all the same.  Derek turned towards each one of them individually, his eyes lacking the alpha red that Stiles was expecting to see, though the muscle in his jaw twitched in a telling way. 

“You’ll fix it, all of you.”

And just like that, the pack got to work.  No arguments whatsoever.  And once the hole was mended, it made sense to just keep going.  The house was in need of a lot of repairs anyway.  Derek didn’t bat an eye when Lydia arrived one afternoon with several cans of carefully selected paint.  And he also kept silent when Boyd started pulling up broken floorboards the moment the hole was fully patched. The rest of the pack just followed along, working through the house and fixing anything that needed a little extra work. Personally Stiles didn’t think it was fair that he got enlisted to help as well, but it made him feel a little more included, so he didn’t complain. Much. 

Stiles half expected Derek to stand around and watch, barking orders as he took pleasure in their suffering, but the werewolf threw himself into helping, lugging planks around as they patched the floor, and stripping old wall paper to prepare for the paint.  It left his skin glistening with enticing drops of sweat, running down his arms and dripping from his jaw.  Stiles couldn’t help but stare, his mouth hanging open as he followed the wet trails with his eyes, imagined what it would be like to lick them away.   

Stiles thought he caught Derek staring back on a few occasions.  But that couldn’t possibly be right. His shirt clung to his skin unattractively, slipping down his neck where sweat pooled along his collar bone.   His face was flushed from overheating and if he looked anywhere near as disgusting as he felt it would have been a revolting sight for even the most curious set of eyes.  In fact, Stiles was pretty sure his stench was becoming off putting, because Derek’s nostrils were flaring as his eyes narrowed and focused somewhere beneath Stiles’s ear. 

“What?” Stiles asked, wiping the sweat from his brow as he set down the hammer in his hand.  He rubbed at his neck self-consciously, wondering what held the werewolf’s attention, and Derek’s eyes followed the movement. Stiles tried to spot whatever the surly man was looking at, making a strange face as he raised his chin and peered down with a grimace.  He didn’t see anything unusual on his skin, it was probably just a mole.  Lord knew he had hundreds of those.  Derek frowned at him, sniffing the air like it would give him the answers he sought, and then a moment later he was gone, walking swiftly further into the house. 

“Good talk!” Stiles rolled his eyes and returned to his work, hammering in a few nails while being careful not to miss.  With any luck he’d get the new bannister finished by the end of the day, hopefully with all his fingers intact. He was so focused for once that he didn’t even hear the approaching feet behind him, and the sudden cold press against his neck had him screeching and arcing his back in surprise.  Stiles whipped around, hammer raised as he prepared to fend off his attacker, but he faltered and gaped when he caught sight of Derek’s subtle smirk. The werewolf held out a cold soda in offering and Stiles yanked it from his hand, cradling it close to his chest like it was precious.  Derek snorted at him and before Stiles even had a chance to speak the werewolf was back to work, chastising the others as they slacked off.

“Thanks,” Stiles muttered anyway, ninety percent sure it would be heard even amongst the banging throughout the house.  He relaxed, propped himself against a toolbox, and opened the can.  The sigh he let out was long and satisfied as he guzzled the liquid down his throat, and he grinned broadly despite the hefty amount of work ahead.

Derek was a better alpha than he thought he would be.  The pack for the most part, gravitated towards him.  His absence had made it clear just how much he was needed, to all of them.   And he was there for them in return, a solid support beam in the middle of Beacon Hills, holding them up, and holding them together. 

There were failures.  Lots and lots of them.  He lacked personality, and couldn’t communicate worth a shit, but there were small gestures that stood out that even Stiles recognized as an observer.  There was the way he lifted his chin slightly in approval, the brief touches at the back of his betas necks or shoulders, the small quirk of his lips that was almost…almost a smile.  He always stood ahead, slightly in front of the others, ready to protect them should it come to that, and he never ran from a fight, even at the detriment of his own wellbeing.  He was there when Isaac’s father attacked him in a drunken rage, marking him with temporary bruises but mental scars that would likely last a lifetime.  He was there when Lydia’s strong exterior cracked and crumbled, leaving a broken girl in need of support.  He was there when Scott lost control of his wolf, easing it back and teaching him how to focus.  He was there for all of them when they needed him most.

They were a family of sorts.  A very dysfunctional family.  It was a family ridden with teenage angst and drama, as well as petty arguments and snappy comments meant to disguise their internal feelings.  But they were still a family.  And Stiles was like that distant annoying cousin that always showed up at the most inconvenient of times.  The one everyone knew but didn’t particularly like, and more often than not just wanted to avoid at all costs.  It was great.

* * *

Stiles never thought he’d be more afraid of a human than something freaky and supernatural, but as the world seemed want to do, he was quickly proven wrong.   The pack faced off against a wide variety of monsters, all of whom seemed intent on destroying the citizens of Beacon Hills, or at the very least annoying the crap out of them, so Stiles figured he’d seen his fair share of what existed out there in the realm of mythical beings. 

First there was the siren that had lured wandering travellers to their deaths in the river.  Stiles had been surprised when he drove over a bridge and caught sight of a lone woman at the side of the road.  She was staring out over the railing, but turned as his jeep approached, and that face…it was the spitting image of his mother.  Naturally Stiles freaked out, jumped out of his jeep without thinking and ended up head first in the river with hands yanking him beneath the water.  Thank goodness there was a gaggle of werewolves in the jeep with him at the time to pull him back up from the depths. 

Then it was the succubus, which had come very close to devouring Boyd.  But it turned out the large werewolf was so chivalrous that he was immune to its charms, and was able to hold it off for long enough that the pack could to stop it.

There was also an actual ghost, a misguided demon or two, and the pixies…oh the pixies.  Not to mention the relatively harmless but particularly annoying gnome.  

For the most part, throughout all of those encounters, the pack remained unscathed, the wolves healing any and all wounds attained within the same night. The only one of their ragtag group that generally ever came close to death was Stiles, and that was only because he felt such an intense need to be right in the middle of the action.  He wanted to prove himself so desperately, to show that he was just as integral to the pack as the wolves, despite not actually being part of it. 

Even after seeing a whole slew of strange and terrifying things that likely haunted the nightmares of normal everyday people, Stiles still found hunters the most terrifying.  Hunters, from his experience were batshit crazy, with the exception of Chris Argent and Allison.  But the rest of them…insane. Completely insane.  But his fear existed mostly because, unlike the other creatures which were often out to sacrifice humans for whatever plot they had afoot, the hunters blatantly targeted his friends instead, and nothing scared Stiles more than the thought of losing those he cared about.

To be honest it was unsurprising when the same hunters they faced before chose to revisit Beacon Hills a few months later.  And they came back with a vengeance.  Apparently the man Boyd had torn apart with his teeth was a central part of their group, and happened to have a girlfriend with a lust for werewolf blood.  Nevermind that Boyd had been protecting not only a member of his pack, on their own territory, as well as a human, which was generally supposed to be off limits to hunters across the board. Apparently these hunters not only did not follow a code, but had absolutely no qualms about murdering innocent people whatsoever.  But how could Stiles have known that?  I mean, you don’t ever really expect people to torture and kill without a second thought. 

He thought, for once, that it might be his opportunity to really shine.  Find out where the hunters were staying, venture in, and do what he was best at.  Talk.  And somehow convince them to leave.  Easy, right?  If there was one thing he was good at it was talking.  And hey, if talking didn’t work, maybe it would kick start his magic and he could flame thrower them all a la Pyro.

Admittedly his plan had been a little silly.

He’d greatly underestimated the lack of compassion his fellow humans held towards one of their own species, and well…his magic was fickle enough when he was focused, but certainly ineffective when his limbs were spasming out of control on the ground.  He wasn’t sure what he had imagined happening. Perhaps bringing forth flames like a mutant in a showy display, just like the first time.  But no more than a little gust of smoke had come to his fingers since then, and he hardly had a single moment to think before someone fired a Taser at him, the little electrodes sinking into the skin of his chest and bringing him to the ground in a fit of uncontrollable seizures.  There was a gun pointed between his eyes before he could even remotely control his limbs, the electrical current still flowing through his body like a tidal wave.

So yeah, in that moment, staring down the barrel of a gun into the eyes of a woman that was less human than any wolf he’d ever encountered, Stiles was completely sure that hunters terrified him more than ninety nine percent of what existed out there in the supernatural side of the world.  And he would have voiced it too, if his tongue wasn’t busy lolling into the back of his throat and cutting off his air supply.

Just to be clear, some things still haunted him more. That weird ghoulish woman they’d encountered in the park topped his list of course and likely always would.  He’d almost lost the entire pack to her, not to mention his arm!  And he wasn’t even sure they’d seen the last of that thing, still beating heart and all.  But there was just something about the look in this particular hunter’s eyes.  Wild, murderous, unrepentant, and yet completely _sane_.

The sane part was what disturbed him most, naturally.  These were humans.  People with families and lives outside of their hunting work.  They had children and friends, fathers, mothers.  And yet here they were, completely ready and willing to destroy another human without remorse.  And Stiles hadn’t really even done anything wrong.  Unless you counted existing, and some people would definitely argue whether his existence was actually beneficial to the world, but really did that mean he deserved to die a slow and painful death?

But back to electrocution.  Stiles had never felt anything quite like it.  He was numb and over sensitized at the same time, completely incapable of controlling a single muscle in his body.  Each second felt like an hour, and the pain…unreal.  He wasn’t aware enough to really comprehend his surroundings, but eventually it stopped, and he just lay there heaving and staring up at the warehouse ceiling above.  His senses came back all at once, noises loud and clear, his limbs still shaking slightly from the adrenaline coursing through his body.  Stiles recognized there was a fight taking place, and that whoever had the gun pointed at him was no longer doing so.  He yanked the barbs from his chest, and hobbled to his feet unsteadily, his head spinning from the sudden movement. 

The pack was fighting around him, growling and gunfire everywhere in the building.  Stiles swallowed and stretched out his jaw as he took in the sight, wondering what to do.  He didn’t have his bat, and his fingers were useless, trembling like they had a mind of their own.  There was no point in even attempting to conjure fire.  But there were guns pointed at his friends, guns presumably loaded with wolfsbane bullets, and honestly, he didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of that ever again.  He felt wobbly, but oddly invincible, and it was easy for him to bolt forwards, using his upper body weight to aid his momentum, when he saw a hunter aiming to kill.   He likely looked like an ogre, stumbling around on unsteady legs, strange unintelligible noises coming from his throat as he charged the man.  But it didn’t matter, because his strategy worked.  He ran headfirst into the hunter, toppling them over to the ground with his body.  They both landed hard.  Stiles flailed on top of the larger man, his brain still fighting to control his muscles, and then a gunshot went off right next to his ear.  Stiles felt the bullet graze his shoulder and he howled, jerking to the side and away from the man entirely. 

His ears were ringing and he coughed when claws dug into his back for a moment, pushing him down into the cement floor.  Scott was shielding his body like a fool, while Derek took the man apart limb from limb, already sporting several wounds across his body.  It looked like he’d taken on an army by himself. Argent and his team were there too, seamlessly firing tranquilizers into every enemy hunter still lingering in the building.  Finally, Stiles felt like he could actually breathe.     

In the end they’d come out alive, even if it had very nearly gone south.

“What the hell kind of plan was that?” Derek sneered, his hand grasped in the sleeve of Stiles’s hoodie as he practically dragged him towards his jeep.  It was a good thing feeling was coming back to his legs, or the teenager would have been suffering from a whole lot of road rash.

“It was a good plan, it had promise.  How was I supposed to know that we were up against total psychopaths?” Stiles babbled, doing his best to keep his feet below his face. 

“You’re too reckless,” Derek said, and then the werewolf let go, taking a moment to flick him in the forehead. Stiles flinched and squinted, flapping his arms as he shoved the hand away.

“Me? What about you!?  Sometimes I swear you think you’re superman or something, totally invincible,” Stiles spat back, and he moved towards the jeep only to stumble and lose his balance.  Derek clasped his hood and heaved his body upright before it had a chance to meet the ground.  Stiles ignored the interaction, acting like he hadn’t nearly had a one on one date with the pavement.

“Dude, those bullets hurt.  I saw what it did to Jackson, the wolfsbane, and…,” Stiles muttered as he reached the familiar blue vehicle, hurrying to open the trunk and snatch out his bag of supplies.  He yanked Derek over, nudging him into a seating position atop the bumper before grabbing his arm and inspecting his wounds.  To his relief there was no sign of poisoning, just regular bullets, thank goodness.

“You’re the one that needs to be more careful, I mean look at this, what is this huh?” Stiles asked, gesturing towards the entry wounds with a grimace.  He set to work removing the bullets with surprisingly steady hands for someone that had recently suffered from electrical currents running throughout his form.

“You’re lucky these were normal bullets,” Stiles rambled, his grip a little bit rougher than it otherwise would have been.  He continued talking, chastising the werewolf for always throwing himself in harm’s way, and really, only Stiles would have the gall to lecture an alpha.  Some of the others were giving him looks of surprise.  It was a testament to the change in their relationship that Derek no longer shoved him into a wall, called him stupid, and growled at him until he was a shaking mess.  A part of him missed that.  But he also quite enjoyed the new exchanges as well. It was almost like…they were friends. Almost.

Derek snorted and gave him a pointed look.  It was clear the alpha thought that Stiles was in fact the one with a penchant for announcing his presence loud and clear, getting in the way of enemies when he ought not to.

“Really, because from what I recall, you’re the one that thought it was smart to walk into a group of hunters, unarmed, without so much as informing the rest of us what you were up to,” Derek snapped.  It was more than three words at a time, had to be a new record.

“I had it under control,” Stiles said with a quick shake of his head. 

It was a lie.  He didn’t. He’d been one second away from an arrow to the heart or a gunshot to the head, and everyone knew it.  Derek raised his eyebrow.  If wolves had a single ability that Stiles hated, that was it.  Walking lie detectors.  And Stiles lied a lot.  Stretching the truth, he used to say.  But if it was still the truth, his heart wouldn’t stutter the way it liked to when he lied.  He set down his pliers and wiped away the mess with a towel, silently congratulating himself for not puking at the sight of blood for the first time in probably ever.

“I’ll heal,” Derek muttered, and true to form the wounds were already beginning to knit themselves back together. The werewolf tugged his arm away, glaring at the obvious gash on Stiles’s right shoulder where the bullet had grazed him.  There was a tear right through his hoodie, one of his favourites too, and the blood was congealing and sticking to the frayed ends of the fabric.  Derek pressed his fingers against it and it throbbed. Stiles grimaced, suddenly far more aware of the pain.  His head tilted to the side as his shoulder rose at the pressure against it, and he gritted his teeth to keep himself from crying out. Derek stared.  Again, the meaning of the look was clear.  Stiles was human.  He wouldn’t heal, not like the wolves did, and Derek got hurt trying to protect him.  Again.

“It’s fine, just a flesh wound, I’ll deal with it later,” Stiles hissed before trying to shake him off, but Derek kept his shoulder held within a tight grasp.  The clawed fingers slid beneath the fabric, pressing gently against the skin around the torn edges of his shirt, and then the pain suddenly disappeared. It left Stiles reeling, and he gasped in relief and nearly fell forwards in shock. Black veins appeared along the length of Derek’s forearm and Stiles widened his eyes as he made the connection.  The werewolf was taking his pain in that freaky way that werewolves could.  It felt amazing.

“T-thanks,” Stiles stuttered.  He felt lightheaded, and his eyes blinked lethargically, his hands drifting limply towards the ground.  Derek frowned, reaching out to touch the front of his shirt.  The werewolf checked over the tears where the Taser had hit Stiles’s chest before moving sideways to press over his heart, the exact location where a string had once hung out of the teen’s body while he awaited death. Stiles knew there was still a messy patch of scar tissue on the skin.  It kind of looked like he’d attempted to carve out his own heart.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that one, it’s long healed,” Stiles mentioned, and he looked down at the clawed fingertips before meeting Derek’s gaze.  They were too close, that was the first thing Stiles noticed.  He could see every hair on the werewolf’s chin, every movement in his jaw and neck.  Stiles swallowed when red eyes flashed, a heated palm splaying gently over his shirt.

“You had a gun pointed between your eyes, Stiles,” Derek growled, and then as if to drive home the point the werewolf lifted his hand and dragged a claw down the teen’s forehead, stopping between slightly furled eyebrows.  It pricked Stiles, but not enough to leave a mark.  He felt the blood draining from his face and a woozy feeling settled in his gut.  He remembered the way the barrel of the gun had felt, pressed against his skin.  Cool metal just barely touching, taunting him, while he was incapable of escaping from the weapon.  Stiles grimaced. His heart sped up while his vision blurred, making his eyelids burn from unshed tears.  He wanted to throw up. 

“I’ll drive you home,” Derek spoke, fingers slipping from the teen’s skin as he stood.  Stiles missed the contact immediately, and he lurched forwards slightly at the lack of support.  He hadn’t realised that the grip on his shoulder was holding him upright, keeping him from toppling to the ground.  Stiles blinked rapidly and took a shaky breath before pushing himself to his feet.

“I can drive,” he insisted, but his hands were shaking, and his legs trembling, something he hadn’t noticed until that very moment.

“Give me your keys,” Derek ordered, holding out his hand.  Stiles didn’t argue, he just dug the key ring from his back pocket and handed it over.  He didn’t remember getting home, hardly even recalled getting into his jeep.  When he woke up it was in his bed, tucked beneath the covers, with bandages over his wounds.  He was awake just long enough to make those observations before his eyes closed once again.

* * *

_The shadow of the tree encased him, casting the surrounding forest in darkness.  Stiles lifted his head, struggled to see the top, but the branches reached so high it hurt his neck to try.  It was swaying slightly, twisting around itself in a menacing way.  It creaked loudly, the bark chipping and falling from the branches while leaves crunched into dust and drifted away.  It made a sound, sorrowful and pleading, something he’d never heard the like of before.  Trees didn’t cry did they?  But he was sure that was it…this tree was shedding tears he couldn’t see.  Creatures were gnawing at it from all sides, whispering at him in strange voices.  One of them looked right at him, eyes muted like there was something blocking their true colour.  There was a voice, whispering, calling out a name he couldn’t decipher. The creature tilted its head, antlers shifting as it turned its gaze to the sky.  Stiles followed in its lead.  It was there that Stiles saw the moon through the branches, watched as the phases changed from one to the next.  He felt it calling to him, felt the power surging through him, and the vision faded to the sight of the first quarter.  A time for change._

* * *

Stiles couldn’t help but feel like he needed to do more. 

It was a bit disheartening that for days after each fight he was the only one still suffering from the wounds, and if he was honest with himself, probably the one that did the least to help.  There was always that sense of not quite belonging.  Like the ugly duckling, except Stiles wasn’t going to grow up to be a swan.  He was just Stiles. Totally less than average Stiles.

It hit him hard on one night in particular.  It was right around the anniversary of his mother’s death.  And maybe his feelings were already a bit on edge.  He hadn’t slept much, plagued by weird dreams he couldn’t interpret and only remembered half of once awake.  His dad was…well, his usual self at that time of the year.  Added on to the pressures he felt already with school, and lacrosse, research, and his pathetic attempts at meditating to train his virtually nonexistent magic, it was nearly unbearable.  His shoulders were tense, his neck stiff.  He couldn’t concentrate. His skin was crawling. 

Crap. 

When was the last time he took his Adderall?  He was forgetting more and more frequently.  Thankfully no one seemed to have noticed aside from him.

The pack was together, just hanging out for once, with no other reason than an excuse to eat pizza and watch some terrible thriller on TV.  They were huddled together on the sofa and the floor in front of it, Derek seated stiffly in the centre.  His face was expressionless, but his eyes…they told a different story, and Stiles knew he was content to be surrounded by pack mates, even if they were loud and obnoxious.  There was no sign whatsoever of his recent injuries, and Stiles thought he looked healthier, more alive than ever before.  Allison and Scott were making out in a corner, trying to be inconspicuous and failing, and the rest of them were laughing, sprawled out across each other gracelessly.  Even Jackson looked happy, lounging on the edge of the sofa, his feet tucked up beneath his body, eyes a little less sunken in than usual.  He was listening to Lydia talk, looking at her with a strange expression.  It was the closest thing to sincere Stiles had ever seen on his face.

It was…like they all needed each other.  Gravitated towards one another because of the bond of pack.  And it hurt.  Because that was something Stiles would never have.  Sure he had his dad, he loved his dad.  He knew his dad loved him.  But he didn’t have pack. 

He was human, after all.

He felt it in his gut, that aching need, that longing. The familiar emptiness that he’d shoved to the depths long ago had come rearing back up, and shit yes, _he wanted it_. And fuck…he wasn’t actually seriously thinking about asking for the bite, was he? But a part of him was.  A part of him really wanted to have what the rest of them did.  He wanted to belong, he wanted a pack, and he wanted an alpha. If that meant getting bitten, taking the risks that came with that, and becoming a werewolf, he’d gladly do it. 

But it would never happen.  And that was the real problem. Scott would never let him go through with it, since a part of his friend still viewed it as a curse.  He was growing accustomed over time, but Stiles was sure his friend would never wish the initial struggle and pain on anyone, especially not Stiles.  He’d be so disappointed that Stiles was even considering it.  And Derek…he’d never even want to if given the chance. Stiles had nothing to offer other than a mouth that ran off when it shouldn’t and the attention span of a fly in a garbage pail.

Stiles felt his throat tightening, and that burning feeling started up behind his eyes again.  He wrapped his arms around his body, scratching at his elbow with jagged nails, trying to chase away an itch that didn’t exist.

“Uh…I…I uh gotta head out,” Stiles voiced.  It was quieter than normal, but still audible to a room of werewolves, and it only hurt further when hardly anyone turned to look. 

“Stiles?” Scott asked, managing to take a breather away from Allison’s face just long enough to glance his way. 

“Sorry dude, economics assignment, sorta forgot,” Stiles muttered, his heart stuttering only slightly at the lie. 

“What? Didn’t you finish that like a week ago?” Scott wondered, but Stiles ignored him, offering a quick wave as he kept his gaze directed towards his feet.

“See ya later!” Stiles called out as he practically ran from the house, taking the steps on the porch two at a time. He missed whatever conversation came after his hasty exit, and the hazel eyes that followed his jerky movements out the door, too focused on getting his ass in his jeep and the hell out of the forest.  Stiles let out a gasped sob before he managed to stifle the sounds, catching them in his throat until the first tears leaked from his eyes.  He was too close, there was still the possibility they could hear.  And the last thing he needed was a walking lie detector when he was on the verge of having a panic attack.

When he reached the outskirts of the forest Stiles pulled over, finally giving in.  His vision was so blurred he couldn’t see the road any more, and he really couldn’t afford to crash the jeep.  He slumped over the wheel and gripped his hair, letting the tears flow down his face.  His breathing staggered in his chest, and he gasped against the faux leather, heaving in and out at a rushed pace.  That heaving quickly morphed into choking.  Stiles gripped his neck, shaking as his lungs failed to work properly, and he coughed in an attempt to clear away a blockage that didn’t exist.

He couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t breathe.

His arms were shaking, his legs bouncing up and down as he struggled to keep himself from passing out. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, flicking on the radio with shaking fingers, letting his mind single out whatever song was playing so he could settle down.  He gripped his fingers in his jeans, and then tapped them to the beat, trembling slightly as he struggled to stay with it.  His body ached all over, and he opened his mouth wide as he tried to focus on his breathing pattern.  In and out.  In and out.  The same thing, over and over, until it didn’t feel like his chest was seizing. It took ages, and three more songs to reach a steady tempo, but eventually the rhythm came a little easier, and he breathed in long and deep.  The air burned as it went down his throat, and he choked on it at first, feeling the hot tears rolling down his face and neck as he blinked down at his legs. Snot dripped from his nostrils and he rubbed it away with the back of his hand.

The attack left him with a pounding headache and a dull pain behind his eyes and nose.  His throat was dry and filled with phlegm at the same time, and he sat up and stared listlessly out the window at his dark surroundings.  The air inside the jeep was stifling, and when Stiles rolled down the windows the cool breeze on his skin was shocking.  He let the fresh oxygen into his lungs, dropping his head against the door frame as he wiped away his tears.  It wasn’t that late, but late enough that hardly anyone was out, and he flinched in surprise when a car drove past, the headlights momentarily blinding his eyes.  It wasn’t enough to make him move though, and Stiles remained slumped like that for quite some time, his tears running down his face until he could taste them.

He hadn’t cried like that since his mother’s heart monitor flatlined while he grasped her limp hand in his own.

It took a long time for him to find the energy to sit back up, and even then he sniffled and shook his head, rubbing his face against the palm of his hand as he fell back against the seat. He hated feeling so weak.  Stiles stared out the windshield, one hand propped on the steering wheel as he reached into his pocket, searching for his lighter.  He twirled it around between his fingers before flipping the lid open and igniting it.  It was bright to his oversensitive eyes, but he didn’t look away, swirling the little blaze from side to side.  Stiles let out a strangled sound and squeezed the canister just a little bit tighter.

He wasn’t going to bed until he could control that damn flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](http://shinigami714.tumblr.com) Come say hi! :)


	6. Chapter 6

To an outsider, Stiles probably looked like he was living in chaos.  There were books scattered all over his room, open to different pages and with markings and sticky notes strewn across the spreads.  Some things were underlined, some highlighted.  There was no consistent method to his madness of notation technique.  The bed was a mess, the sheets half off the mattress, and Stiles sat in the middle of it all, cross-legged on the floor.  His hair stuck up in all different directions, his clothes were rumpled, and he was missing a sock, lost in the depths beneath the bed in a moment of frustration.  Around his neck hung several trinkets and talismans, all woven together with different colours of string.  The decorative beads fell down his torso fancifully, only occasionally catching on the fabric of his shirt.  He sported several designs across his skin, painted on with ink, and partially smudged from an evening of rolling around on the carpet. 

Stiles clicked away at his laptop, completely engrossed in a random article.  He scanned through the text quickly despite the increasing headache developing behind his eyes.  He was so preoccupied he didn’t notice the werewolf slipping through his window, only turning towards the shadowy form when feet thudded beside him on the floor.  Stiles jolted slightly and blinked owlishly up at the tall figure, though he was back to his research in no time, paying the brooding man little attention.

“Hey Derek,” Stiles muttered passively, and the werewolf frowned at the teen and took in the strange sight before him.   

“What are you wearing?” Derek asked, his nose wrinkling as several papers stuck to the bottom of his shoe.  He lifted a foot and shook it slightly, grimacing when the action did little more than crinkle the page at the edges.

“Oh this?  Just some stuff to help,” Stiles said, flicking at the beads hanging around his neck idly.

“Help with what?” Derek wondered, and he peered over Stiles’s shoulder at the laptop screen.  It looked as though the teen was deeply invested in the mating habits of giraffes.  What that possibly had to do with his attire, or apparent exhaustion, was a complete mystery.

“Communing with the moon, and nature,” Stiles uttered, waving his hand towards the tiny potted plant nestled beneath his desk flippantly like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  Derek stared at him for a moment, and then he sniffed the air as he looked around the room in what might have been disgust.

“You smell different today,” the werewolf mentioned, and Stiles turned his head away from the screen, looking at Derek curiously as the older man slumped in his empty computer chair stiffly.  The werewolf lifted one leg over the other and yanked the dangling page away from his sole before flicking it to the ground.  He sniffed again, taking a few moments to really breathe in, and his eyes roamed Stiles’s form suspiciously.

“Like rain, and…salt,” Derek drawled, his face pinched.  Hazel eyes met amber, and Stiles froze under the scrutiny. He swallowed nervously and blinked a few times before really focusing on the comment.  And shit could it have been any more obvious what he’d been up half the night doing?  Stiles’s eyes flicked towards his pillow where tear stains still lingered visibly on the fabric.  He cleared his throat and shifted his legs, clicking his mouse a bit too aggressively.  The cursor flew across the screen and he managed to close the web browser instead of going to the next page.

“What do I normally smell like?” Stiles asked as he reopened his browser and cursed himself for setting up the history to auto clear.  There had been nearly fifty tabs open, now lost forever in the dark and wondrous realm of his computer data.  It had taken hours to find those particular sections of the internet.  But he supposed it was worth it in the rare possibility that he ever found himself incriminated and the feds searched his hard drives.  He really didn’t want an article published about his unique interests and the very specific keywords he used on porn sites.  And the less his dad knew about that the better, for both their sanity levels. 

“Sunflowers, cinnamon, and autumn leaves,” Derek mumbled and Stiles nearly forgot how to breathe.  The teen paused and blinked up at the werewolf with bloodshot eyes, his mouth gaping slightly in surprise.  He was stunned at the decisiveness behind that answer.  Almost like those scents were so ingrained in the other man’s memory that it was second nature to list them off.  It was oddly poetic. Derek continued to stare at him for a moment before lowering his chin and turning his head to the side.

“Really? Huh,” Stiles said, and he licked his lips before redirecting his gaze to his lap.  That needed to be looked into.  Definitely.  There had to be some deeper meaning to the scents of certain people. Stiles was beyond intrigued.  Did certain smells attach themselves based on personality?  Or was it environment alone?  It wasn’t as though Stiles went frolicking through leaf piles every day, though he did spend a fair amount of time in the preserve.  He bent over slightly, starting to type away at his computer, already pulling up pages of information for his brain to digest, his previous research forgotten.  The teen’s foot wiggled away as he tapped his fingers against the side of the screen, once again ignoring his surroundings. It felt like just a few seconds had passed when Derek reached out and grabbed his hand to stop it from fidgeting, but a glance at the clock showed it had been nearly an hour.   

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, his voice soft and husky.  His brow was lowered in a strange way, like he was concerned, but that couldn’t be right. 

“Huh?” Stiles breathed, caught by the expression on the werewolf’s face. Derek frowned and eyed the teen’s jerking knee, the way it bounced up and down against the carpet, and Stiles widened his eyes and lowered his elbow against it to stop the rapid movement.  Holding it down was harder than it should have been, and Stiles became suddenly aware of just how jittery he was.  His skin was crawling, and he felt ready to burst, while his eyes struggled to focus on any one feature on Derek’s face.  Stiles sucked his lower lip in, feeling the flush begin to rise up his neck.  He tugged his hand away from the other man’s grip, surprised at how the skin tingled from the sudden lack of warmth.  He was acting like a blushing virgin.  He… _was_ a blushing virgin.  Oh god. 

“Oh, y-yeah…just haven’t medicated in a while, y-you know,” Stiles stuttered, and he rubbed at the back of his head and offered up an uneasy grin. “I’ve been up all night reading, about everything.”

“Everything?” Derek questioned, his eyebrow raised in doubt.  Stiles just nodded and slapped his hands against his knees.

“Wolves, packs, sugar in cereal, chlorine levels in our drinking water, the elements. You know, everything,” Stiles explained.  He sat still for all of five seconds before spreading his arms out at his sides excitedly.

“Hey did you know some werewolves can actually shift into wolves. I mean…well you know what I mean, like actual wolves! That’s soooo badass,” Stiles rambled.  Derek’s features softened, his eyelids lowering as his mouth rose ever so slightly at the corners.  It wasn’t really a smile, if anything it was bittersweet.

“I know, my sister could,” he whispered.  Stiles gaped at him, his arms still held out wide, though he slumped at the hint of sadness on Derek’s face.  A part of him was overjoyed, because they were at a place where Derek actually felt comfortable confiding such a thing in front of him.  Just a few months prior he would have received little more than a heated glare at a comment that clearly struck the man on such a deeply personal level.  Still, regret bloomed in the teen’s gut, and he swallowed around the sudden lump forming in his throat as his brain worked in double time.  He needed to say something, anything to get rid of that darkness that so often plagued the alpha.   

“You’ll totally do it too, I know you will,” Stiles blurted. “You’ve got this intense look when you shift already…I wonder what you’d look like as a wolf.”

Derek shifted uneasily, betraying his lack of confidence, and Stiles clasped his hands together and rocked back and forwards.  The silence between them was uncomfortable, and Stiles hated it.  He needed to fill the empty space, and he had just the thing.  He’d been planning on waiting for the right moment, a time to really showcase his newfound accomplishment, perhaps during the next pack meeting when everyone was there to see.  But Derek was the alpha after all.  Perhaps he deserved the honour of being the very first witness.

“Hey! I almost forgot….look what I can do!”  Stiles voiced, his eyebrows moving up and down as he flashed a broad grin towards the other man.  The teen rubbed his hands together with a smirk, licking his lips like he was preparing some sort of devious plot.  He held out his hands in front of his body, waving them in a complex movement for show, and then let his left palm turn upwards as a flame burst forth from between his fingertips. 

Derek jerked back in his seat, eyes widening as he stared at the flame in disbelief.  His hazel eyes sparkled as they flittered back and forth over the dancing fire in Stiles’s palm, and then his shocked expression morphed slightly, revealing a tiny quirk of his lips on one side.  It was still a borderline grimace, and Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of it.  

Stiles made sure the flame remained small, his muscles straining slightly at the energy it took to keep the fire under control.  The last thing he wanted to do was let it go wild.  Derek was likely still wary of unrestrained fire, for good reason.  Stiles gripped his wrist tightly as it began to ache, his hand shaking in place.  He had spent a good portion of the night working towards this, and it was finally beginning to take its toll, but it was there, and he was controlling it.  There had been a lot of begging and pleading with the moon for help, a lot of tears, shouting, and flipping through pages searching madly for a solution.  But if there was one thing that ought to be feared in the world, it was Stiles Stilinski without a wink of sleep or his daily dose of Aderall. The teen grimaced as he let the flame fizzle out, his eye twitching as he slumped in place. He felt out of breath and weary.

“Cool right?” Stiles gasped, running a trembling hand through his hair. “Not just some useless human anymore!”

He was grinning like a fool, but couldn’t hide the yawn that forced its way out.  The sun had begun to creep into his room, lighting up his face and highlighting the sharp angles of his cheek bones while emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes.  Derek hadn’t said a word, and Stiles was afraid to look at him.  What if the werewolf thought it was stupid, or was disappointed?  It was after all just a tiny flame, and it had taken him ages to learn what seemed like such a simple thing.  If he’d only been better at focusing, at utilizing the knowledge Deaton gave him.  But no, it had taken weeks, and for what?  Little more than a party trick.

When Stiles finally met Derek’s gaze he was faced with a new expression, one he didn’t recognize.  The werewolf was studying him carefully, hands clasped tightly around the armrests of the chair, and there were tiny scratch marks in the plastic left behind from sharp claws.

“You were never useless,” Derek said, his jaw tensing as the words left his mouth.  He leaned forward and grabbed the teen’s hand again, this time turning it over to inspect the burns running along the skin of Stiles’s palm.  There had been a few mishaps in the learning process, but it was nothing compared to the first time, which had left him covered in blisters for weeks.

“Heh,” Stiles sighed as rough fingers trailed along his skin gently.  He was feeling a bit dizzy, and couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Derek’s jawline. 

“Did you finish the assignment?” The werewolf asked suddenly, and Stiles looked at him blankly, distracted by the circular motion against his hand.

“Huh? What assignment?”

“The economics assignment.  You left to finish it last night,” Derek reminded him, and Stiles blinked a few times before it hit.

_Shit._

“Oh! Oh yeah!  Yeah it’s done,” Stiles hurried to reassure him.  It was a half-truth at best.  It _was_ done, but he hadn’t worked on it overnight.  There’d been a printed, fully edited copy lodged inside his binder for nearly a week.  Derek’s eyes narrowed, and Stiles twisted away from him, pretending that his interest had returned to his research and not controlling his thundering heartbeat that was likely giving him away.

“Oh hey did you know that a male giraffe finds out if a female is ready to mate by letting her urinate in his mouth? Completely fascinating stuff, might come in handy,” Stiles rambled, because talking was the best sort of misdirection.

“I mean it’s definitely not something I’d be interested in on a…personal level you know, but still, intriguing. Animals are totally bizarre.  And it got me thinking about wolves too, like how you’re part wolf, in a way, and how many of their mating rituals cross over into-,” Stiles faltered in the middle of his sentence, and the gooseflesh rose along his spine as Derek pressed a hand against the back of his neck.  Strong fingers curled around his nape, Derek’s thumb falling to rest just behind his ear.  The werewolf rubbed at the sensitive skin, easing Stiles’s head to the side so they could lock eyes.

The teen opened and closed his mouth several times, leaning into the touch unconsciously.  He was shocked.  It was a pack thing, something Derek did to calm his betas when they were feeling particularly unsettled.  He’d always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such a gesture.  It was soothing, warm, and made him feel…safe.

“Stiles,” Derek whispered, his name little more than a breath of air escaping the other man’s lips.

“Uh huh?” Stiles uttered, blinking languidly.  All at once the tension eased from his shoulders, the over taut muscles in his body relaxing.  He hadn’t even realized how strained everything felt until that moment, and by the gods, was that ever addictive.

“Oh…uh….that feels nice,” Stiles mumbled.  He was hit with a sudden bout of exhaustion.  His eyelids were heavy, his arms and legs wobbly, and his temples throbbed along with the beat of his heart.  Stiles was near certain that without the steady grip against his neck he would have found it difficult to hold his own head up.

“Take your pills, go to bed,” Derek ordered, and Stiles stumbled over a few unintelligible words, glancing at his laptop sullenly.  There were so many things left to learn, so much work left to do.  Derek must have seen the indecision in his gaze, because the werewolf reached out and closed the screen of Stiles’s laptop, his grip tightening slightly on the teen’s neck.   

“You’ve done enough for one day, get some rest,” Derek insisted, but Stiles wasn’t one to give in so easily.  He pouted and frowned at the werewolf, opening his mouth to argue.

“But…the day’s just starting and I still haven’t figured out -,”

“I mean it, bed.  Now,” Derek interrupted, his voice deeper and far more commanding than before.  His eyes flashed red, and Stiles’s breath caught in his throat.  Was that…Derek’s alpha voice?  It was strange the way Stiles felt compelled to obey.  It shouldn’t have worked on him.  He wasn’t a wolf.  He wasn’t even pack.  But a part of him wanted to listen, and he knew deep down that it wasn’t wise to overdo it anyway.

“Yeah….yeah okay, bed,” Stiles murmured, and he pushed himself to unsteady feet and hobbled over to his mattress.  Derek helped him take off the necklace hanging around his shoulders, and then Stiles practically fell into the sheets, his face becoming one with his pillow.  He pushed his cheek into the soft fabric, and let his eyes close as Derek tucked him in, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders.  Stiles sighed happily as he began drifting off into a much needed rest, letting out a contented sound as fingers dragged through his hair, brushing back a few of the longer strands. 

“You’ve done well.”

Stiles felt the words against his skin like they were spoken by the wind and he was fast asleep before the other man had even snuck back out the window.

* * *

_He was standing again in darkness, the moon just barely visible between the branches of the tree.  It was silent, strangely so, but there was a buzzing inside his fingertips, an energy waiting eagerly for release.  For the first time one of the creatures at the base of the tree was clearly formed.  A stag paused in its gnawing and looked up at him, eyes blazing red, body engulfed in flame.  It was stronger, returned to its former glory, and the three remaining creatures appeared mournful and lost by comparison, still cloaked in the shadows of the forest._

_The tree shifted slightly, standing straighter, branches reaching farther than before.  But it wasn’t enough.  Not just yet._

* * *

Angry sounds came from the TV as a character died on screen.  Stiles tapped his fingers frantically against the buttons on his controller, shooting at everything in sight.  He moved around the level carefully, glancing from the radar and back rapidly until another target was in sight.  A moment later and Scott was groaning in disappointment, his character falling to the ground on the other side of the screen. Stiles whooped and let out a laugh, already beginning the search for more enemies.    

“So what’s up with the smelling thing, do all werewolves do that?” Stiles asked, his eyes glancing around the screen for signs of life.  Scott tilted his head slightly but didn’t turn to look at him.

“Oh yeah, I guess so.  It’s like…a familiarity thing.  You know,” his friend said with a shrug.

“Everyone has a scent, but it changes a bit, depending on where you’ve been in a day, who you’ve been around, what you’ve been doing,” Scott explained, his teeth gritting and shoulders rising as he narrowly avoided impending death.  Stiles hummed loudly as his mind worked out all the possibilities.   He wondered if he’d have to start taking showers before pack meetings to hide the evidence of his teenage self-exploratory endeavours.

“Do you smell Allison?” Stiles probed, and even out of the corner of his eyes he could see the red tinge on his friend’s face.

“I dunno, maybe? Sometimes, yes,” Scott muttered.

“She smells good,” he quickly added on.  Stiles rolled his eyes and shot someone in the head.

“Do I smell good?” he asked, and that time Scott did turn to look at him, one eyebrow raised incredulously.

“What? Is my stench that off putting?” Stiles cried, the game suddenly far less important to him as he sniffed at his armpits.    

“No, it’s not that.  I just don’t go around thinking about your scent all the time,” Scott said with a shrug.

“Oh, just Allison’s of course.  Sorry we can’t all smell like roses and pomegranate or whatever perfect potpourri she’s got going on,” Stiles blurted, and not a moment later a dopey grin found its way onto Scott’s face as he stared off into space.

“Dude, really? Wakey wakey,” Stiles drawled, waving his controller in front of the other teen’s face.  Scott broke free of his daydream with an apologetic smile, ducking his head between his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he whispered.  Stiles didn’t believe it for a second.

“Just…humour me and tell me what I smell like to you?  It’s valuable information and I’m conducting a survey,” Stiles pleaded, his controller settled in his lap. Scott visibly sighed, but turned towards him anyway and Stiles grinned and sat up straight, holding his head high like it would help his scent waft better throughout the room.

“You smell like…,” Scott started, and he leaned in and sniffed carefully, almost hesitantly, before pulling away and settling back into place.

“Familiar, you smell familiar,” Scott finished, his eyes back on the TV.

“Come _on_...,” Stiles groaned, and he poked the other teen in the side until he gave in.

“Okay okay, geez,” Scott whined, and he batted Stiles hands away before closing his eyes and breathing in.

“A mix of things, nature, pancakes, wet leaves, and…Derek,” Scott said carefully.  Stiles faltered, his eyes widening as he eyed Scott in surprise.

“Derek?  I smell like Derek?” he spat.  Scott shrugged his shoulders and picked up his controller, attention back on the game.

“Yeah,” he voiced, like it was obvious, like it was no big deal, like he’d known it all along.  Stiles gaped at his friend, fingers tightening as they gripped the fabric over his knees, controller forgotten in his lap.  He smelled like Derek.  The big bad alpha werewolf, with his spicy yet somehow still fresh aftershave that murdered women’s hearts by the second.  Derek who spent his days surrounded by woods, and nature, and leather, and wolves, and highly expensive cars.  Derek who exuded the very essence of rugged man, and everything Stiles was suddenly one hundred and twenty percent attracted to and what even was his sexuality anymore?

He smelled…like _Derek_. 

Stiles heart was beating a mile a minute, and his vision blurred slightly as he stared at nothing while trying not to overheat.   His face flushed slightly and he couldn’t help but wonder.  If he smelled like Derek…then did that mean that Derek smelled like… _him_?   

Stiles broke free from his dream state when Scott’s laughter rang out beside him, and he noticed as the all too familiar death screen popped up on his side of the television. 

“Crap! Dude no fair, I was distracted,” Stiles snapped, picking up his controller again as he refocused on the game. Scott smirked at him knowingly and without a hint of regret.

* * *

It turned out his party trick went over with flying colours.  The pack loved it, all of them equally impressed by his ability to draw out a flame from seemingly nowhere.  Jackson in particular was mesmerized by the moving flame, even taking to lingering around Stiles awkwardly until he conjured it up and made the fire dance.  Stiles caught him staring on more than one occasion, so it came as no surprise to find Jackson lingering in the shadows one night outside on the deck.  Stiles was leaning over the railing, letting the cooler night time air settle his nerves.  He could smell whatever the pack was cooking up for dinner inside and he breathed in deeply and let out a happy sigh.  It was Erica’s turn to cook, which usually meant disaster, but Boyd was helping this time, and Isaac liked to keep a watchful eye whenever possible, so it would probably be passable for once.

Stiles turned his head when the wooden boards creaked, and he spotted Jackson’s eyes, just barely picking up the light that leaked out from inside the pack house.  The other teen was still, but watchful, like he was waiting for something, and Stiles smiled and brought forth his flame.  He put on a little show, making the fire grow in size between his palms as he twisted it around in the air.  Jackson’s eyes followed the movement avidly, his interest pushing Stiles to test his limits as he spread his hands further apart, still managing to contain the flame.  His control was already getting much better.

He kept at it for a few moments, but had to stop as he became exhausted from the strain of working the fire in a more complex way.  But it was worth it to see Jackson so mesmerized.  The werewolf looked ready to say something, perhaps ask for a repeat performance, but Derek stepped outside and put a heavy hand down on his shoulder. 

“Jackson, go help set the table,” the alpha spoke easily, and Jackson surprisingly didn’t complain, instead leaving the other two standing alone on the deck.  Stiles glanced towards the door, avoiding Derek’s gaze, because lately the sight of those hazel eyes turned him into little more than a stuttering mess.   

“I can help too,” Stiles offered, but as he moved away from the railing his vision blackened, and for a moment Stiles thought he might pass out.   Derek took hold of his arm, keeping him upright as his balance wavered and he fought off the unexpected bout of vertigo.   After a few seconds he was stable enough to stand on his own, but he still felt a bit lightheaded.

“You okay?” Derek asked, his hands hovering at the teen’s elbows in wait.  Stiles breathed in deeply, but nodded and smiled at the werewolf reassuringly.

“It just…takes a lot out of me, it’ll get easier with practise,” Stiles voiced. 

Derek eyed him closely and Stiles ducked his head and eased around his form, making his way back inside.  He felt the flush filling his ears as the werewolf’s gaze settled on his back.  Soon enough he was enveloped by the scent of food wafting from the dining table and Stiles hurried towards the room, eyes widening as he took in everything spread out in front of him.  He grinned at the sight, his stomach grumbling eagerly in reaction. 

The other wolves were setting down platters and laughing excitedly as they prepared to dig in and Stiles watched as they filled their plates and bickered playfully amongst one another.  His heart skipped a little, and Stiles swallowed nervously when he felt the familiar burn behind his eyes, his smile quickly falling away.  It was…just like family.  He hadn’t had a dinner like this since his mother died.  He didn’t blame his father, he knew they’d both been affected terribly by her death, and each of them struggled to show weakness, even to each other.  He just wished, more than anything, that they could share this moment together, with her too. 

Erica looked proud as heck when the wolves began stuffing their faces, basking in the praise coming from everyone around her.  Jackson appeared content for once, and Allison was laughing at Scott, who was trying to talk around the food in his mouth while Isaac watched him in wonder.  Stiles stifled the noise that came out of his throat, something caught between a laugh and a whimper.  He was pretty sure it was too loud in the room for anyone to notice, but Lydia’s eyes strayed towards him then to Derek at his side and back again, and Stiles knew she’d heard it despite her lack of wolf level hearing. 

He looked down, avoiding the redhead’s gaze.  The last thing he needed was to work himself up so much he had another panic attack.  He could handle this.  It was just a dinner.  After a deep breath he felt a gentle pressure against his lower back, and then Derek leaned in close, urging him forward with his hand.  

“Sit,” Derek spoke lowly, and the faded flush flared right up again, spreading from his ears and right across Stiles’s face.  Just a single word and he was practically flailing around like a lovesick puppy.  Stiles hurried into his seat, the chair scratching against the hardwood as he pulled it in towards the table.  When Derek took the space beside him Stiles wanted nothing more than to melt into a puddle.  The next time he met Lydia’s gaze she was smirking at him knowingly and Stiles shot a glare right back at her.   

“Eat,” Derek ordered, but Stiles was still caught up in his staring contest so his plate remained empty.  The werewolf growled slightly and started slapping mashed potatoes onto the plate in front of Stiles, drawing the teen’s attention towards the growing mountain of food.  Stiles sputtered indignantly and shoved at the wolf’s arm in response. It didn’t budge.

“Okay already, I can feed myself, jeez,’’ Stiles blurted.  Derek stared at him with a raised eyebrow before spooning even more food onto his plate, and Stiles gaped at the alpha in return.  Boyd took that opportunity to plop a dinner roll atop the pile of potatoes, and the table laughed as Stiles slouched and crossed his arms.  When the gravy was offered Stiles snatched it with a huff because gravy was like liquid gold, and if the pack didn’t think he was capable of eating four servings of potatoes then they were in for a surprise.  He was a bottomless pit. 

He managed to pout through three whole bites before giving up and digging in along with everyone else.  Before long Stiles was laughing and chatting with the rest of them, his eyes gleaming happily. And the satisfied, half-visible grin on Derek’s face was enough to make his smile stick around for the rest of the night.

* * *

“You’re getting quite good with fire,” Deaton mentioned, watching Stiles pass a fairly large flame from hand to hand in his study area in the corner of the room.  He was sitting cross legged on the floor, books and research spread out around him like always.  Stiles could make any space look like a disaster zone if he spent enough time in it. 

“You should start working on the other elements.  See if you can get a response from them at all,” Deaton urged.  Stiles split the flame into two, holding one above each palm as he swirled them into different shapes.

“Fire’s the coolest though don’t you think?” Stiles said, before he let the flames fizzle out and wiped the sweat from his brow.  He relaxed slightly, taking a few steadying breaths. He didn’t feel nearly as worn out anymore.  Practicing really did help.  Deaton eyed him for a moment before turning back to his cupboard, relabeling several vials with blurred text.

“Many first assume that fire is the strongest of the elements, but this is not so,” the vet mentioned. “Fire is quite destructive, but it can be extinguished, stifled, and in many cases controlled by external forces.  Consider this.  If you were to say, remove the air from within a room, what can be done to return it?”

Stiles stared at Deaton, his brain working as he tried to envision that particular scenario.  Even the thought of someone suffocating like that had him scratching at his arm nervously.  Deaton was right.  That was a lot of power to hold.  A part of him wasn’t sure he would be able to.  What if he made a mistake and accidentally killed one of his friends, had to watch them suffer as they grasped at their neck in a desperate search for air.  What if…he did it to himself?

Stiles shivered and took a shaky breath.  He couldn’t think like that.  After all, it would be a valuable talent to have.  He’d be able to cripple almost any enemy they went up against, if he mastered it that is.  Everyone needed air, even a good portion of the supernatural.

“You really think I could control the others?” Stiles asked.  Honestly, it hadn’t come to his mind at all.  He’d been so focused on learning how to use fire. He stood and started gathering his books while Deaton turned towards him.

“Perhaps, one day,” the vet said.

“Seems…dangerous,” Stiles muttered as he zipped up his backpack and slipped it on his shoulders.

“Isn’t there a saying that you like to use. With great power…,” Deaton trailed off, and Stiles glanced towards him with a broad grin.

“Start with water, it is perhaps the most forgiving, and…if you ever set something aflame, you will be able to easily douse it,” Deaton suggested.  Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, no faith in my control I see,” Stiles said, his hands on his hips.  Deaton offered him little more than a pointed look. Okay so maybe he’d had a few mishaps in his eagerness to increase his power, leaving singe marks on some of the cupboards, and a lingering smell of burnt toast throughout Deaton’s office.  But it totally could have been worse, right?

* * *

Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital was one of his least favourite places in the world.  Stiles grimaced as he followed his dad inside, the smell of chemicals already invading his nostrils.  Everything about the building made him feel uncomfortable.  The disturbing lighting, the blandness of the walls, the sterile nature of his surroundings, and of course, the lingering reminder of impending death.  He would have avoided it if at all possible, but the days Stiles and his dad were actually able to spend together had been few and far between lately.  So even if his dad was working a case at the hospital, Stiles was determined to tag along, especially since he knew his dad hated it just as much as he did.

The sheriff’s shoulders stiffened as they walked through the lobby, and he directed Stiles towards the waiting area with a terse nod. 

“Stay here,” his dad whispered, and then he was off towards the reception desk, leaving Stiles to drop down in one of the uncomfortable chairs alone.  The teen twiddled his thumbs for a solid minute before he got bored and swiped one of the germ infested magazines off a nearby table.  It took him a while to prop it up in a good position, and the woman across the way was eyeing him suspiciously, probably coming to a horrifying conclusion about what he was trying to hide.  Stiles smiled at her widely and she huffed and turned her attention to the biker bleeding from his arm three seats over.

Stiles refocused on his hands, bringing out the flame easier than he ever thought he’d be able to.  It was one of the few things that could entertain him for extended periods of time.  It was actually difficult to stop practicing sometimes, and he’d had one particular close call in a public place that nearly outed his abilities to an entire preschool class.  He was pretty sure only one person had actually seen him bend the flame to his will, and it was just a kid, hardly five years old.  Not really a problem right? Kids thought they saw crazy stuff all the time.  Hell, Stiles had rambled on about unicorns and dragons and all kinds of unbelievable crap when he was little, and he’d turned out okay.  Never mind that most of the fantastical stuff turned out to be real.

Quick footsteps sounded in the hall nearby and Stiles hurriedly whisked the flame away, tugging the magazine unnaturally close to his face.  He practically pressed his nose into the centre binding when hushed voices echoed into the waiting area.

“This is the sixth one this week,” a woman’s voice sounded, and Stiles pushed his back against the chair and leaned towards the edge of the wall, his elbow hanging off the end of the armrest.   

“It’s the same…ninth month of pregnancy, no sign of illness or complication.  Except this time they couldn’t save the mother either,” the same voice mentioned, and Stiles narrowed his eyes and stretched across his chair so much he was nearly out of the seat.

“Poor guy, lost everything in a matter of minutes, so suddenly,” another voice murmured.  Stiles hovered over the arm rest, his mouth open wide, and he nearly dropped the magazine as the two figures approached, passing the corner and heading across the waiting area.  The teen fumbled the flimsy pages and sat up straight, crossing his legs in an entirely natural way.  He held his breath long after the nurses disappeared from sight. 

It sounded far too suspicious.  His dad was currently investigating a case at the hospital, just after several mysterious deaths that seemed connected? Clearly something was going on, and it was likely related to the supernatural.  Nothing in Beacon Hills was ever not related to the supernatural.  The teen couldn’t resist inching his head around the corner, peering towards the maternity ward.  There were a few people walking far in the distance, but only one other person was visible, a man seated alone, head in his hands.  His posture spoke volumes, and Stiles swallowed, ignoring the lump forming in his throat.

Stiles crunched the magazine between his fingers and took a cautionary glance beyond the receptionist.  His dad was nowhere in sight.  His eyes shifted around the room, landing briefly on the older woman who was blatantly ignoring him, before he scrambled to his feet and started walking casually down the hallway.  It didn’t take long to reach the man, and Stiles paused at his side, eyes straying to the room across the way against his will.  The bed inside was empty, the sheets newly changed and stark white to match the walls.  His throat tightened further. 

It was disturbing how quickly they cleared the rooms after a death.  Leaving no sight of the person who previously resided there.  His mother’s room had gone from being crammed full of flowers and cards, and those cute little stuffed animals from the gift shop, to barren in what seemed like minutes.  Stiles remembered walking back towards the room long after he’d been escorted from it, refusing to acknowledge that his mom was gone.  But to his surprise someone else had already been there, in the bed, with their own cards and flowers arranged around them.   He’d wanted to scream.  To shout at the person for invading his mother’s space, but instead he ran into the nearest closet and choked on air until it almost killed him too.  Stiles shuddered and turned away from the sight, sitting gingerly in the chair beside the man.

“Hey,” Stiles spoke.  There was no response, but he hadn’t expected one.  Talking was probably the last thing the man wanted to do after experiencing such a great loss.  Too bad talking was the only thing Stiles was good at.

“Uh…want to talk?” Stiles asked, grasping his left arm in his hand.  The man wiped at his face and turned to look at him, eyes glazed over as he relived his loss.

“She was…perfectly healthy,” the man whispered. “They said…they don’t know why.”

Stiles opened his mouth and closed it quickly.  There was nothing he could say that would get rid of that pain.  Nothing that he could do to bring this man’s wife and child back from the dead. Watery green eyes pleaded with him to provide answers, some kind of explanation for what had happened, but all he could do was offer his sympathy. 

“I-I’m sorry.  I know…what it’s like to lose someone,” Stiles admitted.  He turned away, unable to face that gaze for a moment longer, and clasped his hands together in his lap.

“She didn’t mention anything?  Pain or…concerns…before…,” Stiles asked.  A part of him felt guilty for prying.  It was cruel to bring up such nightmares, but it was also the best time to get the truth, while everything was fresh in the mind.  The man stiffened, his legs shifting, feet moving across the bland floor.

“She…saw something, a ghost, an old woman whispering about a heart,” he muttered, and Stiles jerked his head to the side.  His eyes widened as he recalled the last time he heard of something like that.

It couldn’t be…

“Cloaked? Ghoulish features?” Stiles practically hissed.  His heart was speeding up, and he was losing control of his breathing just thinking about it.  The man lifted his head, pinned him with a haunted gaze.

“It sounds crazy doesn’t it, but…,” he breathed, his jaw shaking as he recalled something particularly horrific.

“The doctors say it’s the grief talking, but I heard her.  She was scared.  Maybe they were giving her too much medication, making her hallucinate,” he insisted.  The man’s eyes flashed darkly and then lowered.  Stiles sat stiffly in the hospital chair, his shoulders tense as his lips trembled slightly.  He couldn’t face something like that again.  He just couldn’t.  Maybe it was nothing, a false alarm.  Maybe the man was right and it had something to do with an incorrect dosage.

“I should have done something, I…,” the man stuttered, and then his head was back in his hands as he sobbed.  Stiles sat beside him awkwardly, hands clasped together in an attempt to keep them from reaching out hesitantly.  The sight of another person experiencing such grief had his heart clenching tightly in his chest.  He remembered what it was like so well, to lose someone.  He remembered those hours after his mother’s passing, the way he could hardly see, hardly think.  It was like someone had taken everything inside of him away, leaving little more than an empty shell incapable of free thought.  Stiles couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he lost his dad too.

The mere though made his eyes burn.

Stiles turned away, peering down the hallway as his thoughts returned to his father and the case he was investigating.  The nurses had mentioned it being the sixth victim in the span of a week.  Was it too much to hope for a simple serial killer for once?

His shoulders hunched up and Stiles glanced down between his feet, eyeing the tiled floor below.  He might have missed it had his foot not shifted, catching the thread beneath his sole and flicking between his shoes. It was long and irregularly shaped, just sticky enough that it clung to him until he scraped it away, and Stiles froze.

Oh god…oh god. 

His heart thudded in his chest.  The thumping so loud it was like there was a stampede of elephants inside his head.  He told himself not to panic just yet. Maybe it was just a thread, a regular old piece of a mop or something.   But the texture was so unique, so familiar, and Stiles felt his blood freezing in his veins as he leaned forward and picked it up between his thumb and forefinger. 

Stiles scrambled to reach inside his pocket, tugging his phone out and fumbling it in his hands.  He brought up Deaton’s cell number, typing off a quick message.

_Heart status?_

The wait felt like hours, though it was less than a minute later he received a text back.

_Beating_

The response was short and sweet, to the point, exactly what he expected from the vet.  There was nothing amiss.  But still Stiles felt wary.  It was too coincidental, both the description of a ghostly figure and the thread sitting there on the floor.  The clues were staring him right in the face.

The man next to him was long lost in his woes, so Stiles got up, walking back towards the waiting area to search for his dad.  He was at the reception desk, clearly just finishing up.  There were circles under his eyes, a pinched expression on his face.  The case was clearly wearing on him, stirring up emotions carefully hidden away.  Stiles clenched his fist tightly around the string, not even grimacing as the sticky residue coated his palm.  He was going to figure out what was going on, and he was going to kill whatever it was that was doing it.


End file.
